Since You Been Gone
by JudasFm
Summary: COMPLETED! Sequel to August, October. With Face missing and Decker hot on their trail, Hannibal and the rest of the Team find themselves in a race against time to find and save the lieutenant before it's too late. Please R&R!
1. Mystery Caller

**I own the A-Team. I created them when I was...lessee...nineteen eighty two...carry the one...yep, I would have been at least a few weeks old ;) Unfortunately my baby burblings were overheard and mailed via carrier pigeon to America, where they were taken and turned into the hit show we all know and love. **

**Well, I can dream, can't I? But seriously, I don't own the A-Team and all songs are copyright their respective artists.**

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**4th October**

Time was a strange thing, Hannibal thought wearily as he rested his forehead against the cool glass of the van's window. On a purely academic level, you _knew_ that it was the same, that twenty four hours was twenty four hours no matter what happened.

On a personal level, he'd found that the _passing_ of time was completely different; a day could pass in a flash or drag on forever.

_Six weeks_. They'd been looking for Face for six weeks now. Hannibal had ordered BA to stay in LA just in case the lieutenant showed up there, and he and Murdock had taken the van. The sergeant had been less than happy about this, but Hannibal had shut him up by pointing out that a) someone had to keep an eye on the home turf; b) that someone couldn't very well be Murdock; c) it couldn't be Hannibal either since sending BA and Murdock out to search together was just asking for trouble and d) he was in charge, dammit, so stop whining and get to it, sergeant! He and Murdock had split up a week ago; Murdock to stay behind with Tawnia and Hannibal to take the van and keep searching for Face.

_Where are you, kid_?

Hannibal closed his eyes. He hadn't slept at all last night, having had to make rather a hasty exit when Decker and his MPs had shown up, and it had taken every ounce of cunning Hannibal possessed to shake him off.

Even with his usual optimism, the colonel had to admit that searching for Face was like searching for a needle in a haystack the size of the moon. There was no guarantee he was even in the US anymore; for all Hannibal knew, Face could have hopped on the next flight to Brazil and be sunning himself on the beach right now.

_Except he's not_. Hannibal knew the lieutenant well enough to know that Face was in too much of a turmoil to think about a vacation. He'd go to ground somewhere, lick his wounds and try to get his head straight.

Which was likely to be a problem, Hannibal thought bitterly, since the things Face had suddenly been forced to deal with prior to the last six weeks were enough to drive anyone crazier than Murdock, and in the lieutenant's case, Hannibal was already semi-convinced that they had.

That was what was bothering him. It wasn't unusual for the Team to take off on little trips in between jobs, but Face had been in too much of a state to think about a vacation. Hannibal didn't want to force his company on the lieutenant, but neither could he abandon the search until he knew for sure that Face was alright.

_Exactly. I'll leave him alone if that's what he wants, but I have to see him, set my mind at rest._

Even so, he knew it wasn't that simple. He couldn't get their last conversation out of his mind...if you could call two men hurling accusations back and forth a _conversation._

He picked up the phone and dialled a number. It was picked up on the second ring.

"Speak ta me, caller! Thrill and excite me with your calls, your offers to install new windows _and_ your complete inability to understand the words _take a hint, you Cro-Magnum moron_!"

"Murdock? It's Hannibal. Any sign of Face?"

"Aw, _jeez_, colonel! How many times you gonna keep doin' this?"

"Murdock!"

"_No_, Hannibal, I ain't seen him." There was no friendly insanity in Murdock's voice; it was terse, weary. "This area is a Face-free zone, it is all quiet on the Facial front, Faceman is conspicuous by his absence...just _pick_ whichever one means somethin' to you!"

"He's more likely to go to you than me." Hannibal's own voice held a definite edge; he wasn't used to sarcasm from Murdock.

"Frankly, colonel, after your little stunt, I can't believe he'd go to _any_ of us! I also can't believe you're yappin' at me instead of looking for him, so get off the line an' start searching!"

The line went dead and Hannibal sighed and replaced the receiver. Murdock did have a point; it was the fourth time he'd rung the pilot in the last hour.

He also knew that Murdock's temporary attack of sanity wasn't just down to Face's disappearance; even six weeks on, the pilot was still seriously pissed at Hannibal himself for driving the lieutenant away in the first place.

Well, fine, although the colonel was sure that Murdock couldn't say anything to or about him that Hannibal hadn't already said to himself.

Maybe he should have let the pilot take the van. Murdock had always been closer to Face than the rest of the Team, and despite the captain's words, Hannibal was still convinced that if Face went to anyone for help, it would be Murdock.

The phone rang suddenly and Hannibal jumped, almost dropped his cigar, then snatched it up.

"Lou's delivery." Even in his worried state, he wasn't about to break cover.

He listened, went very white and then said quietly, "Who is this?"

Whoever it was, they didn't want it known; the dial tone buzzed in Hannibal's ear and the colonel slowly replaced the receiver, then sat there staring at his cigar as though he'd never seen one before, the mysterious caller's words echoing over and over in his mind.

Then he picked up the phone again and dialled Murdock.

"Captain."

"_Hannibal_! For the last _time—_"

"Get out, captain. Get out of that apartment, get a car or a chopper and get _moving_. We're going to Chicago."

"Chicago?" Murdock's voice squeaked on the second syllable. "As in Chicago, Illinois?"

"Yeah, Chicago, Illinois; do you know another Chicago? Apartment block on the corner of River Avenue. Number fifty three. I don't have time to pick you up; you'll have to get there yourself." He delivered the instructions in a monotone, and Murdock was quick to notice this.

"Everythin' okay, colonel?"

Hannibal closed his eyes, gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"Don't ask questions, captain. Just meet me there."

Murdock was silent for a few seconds. "Shouldn't we at least call BA?"

"No, he's too far away. We have to get to Chicago right now." Hannibal swallowed hard, then forced out the rest of the words. "It's Face. He's dying."

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**Okay, I know it's short, but c'mon...you know I like to try and leave you hanging ;) More will be along very soon and if you read this, please review!**


	2. Discovery

**ACK! Where does the time go? I am so sorry it took me this long to update (reason being I changed the story halfway through and so had to rewrite this chapter). Anyway, now it's done, all mapped out and we're back and ready to roll again! Thanks for being patient :)**

**lunaz: Thanks. I try ;)**

**trauma: Well...okay, it wasn't soon and definitely not as soon as I would have liked, but here's an update :)**

**Jullian Gray: Thanks :) Future chapters will be up – hopefully – sooner...**

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It took two hours to get to Chicago, even with Hannibal's driving, and when the phone rang again he almost ram-raided a grocery store answering it.

"Yeah?"

Hopes of hearing the mystery caller – or even Face – disappeared as Murdock's twang came on the line.

"Hannibal, _brake_!"

Hannibal hit the brakes instinctively. Seconds later the passenger door was yanked open and Murdock leapt in. "Hit it!"

Hannibal hit it, accelerating away before the pilot had closed the door.

"Man, am I glad you showed up, colonel! I managed to hitchhike this far an' I figured this'd probably be the way in you chose. I been waitin' an' watchin' the road for forty minutes."

"Why didn't you go on ahead?"

"'Cause it's too far to walk. Take a right up here." Murdock pulled out a pistol, checked it carefully, then replaced it in his waistband. Hannibal glanced at it.

"You expecting trouble?"

"You're the one who said Faceman was dyin'!" Murdock snapped the seatbelt shut across his waist as Hannibal took a right without bothering to brake.

The colonel winced. Normally someone who preferred brutal truth to gentle lies, he still couldn't help wishing that Murdock had been a little more euphemistic.

"Do you know where this place is?"

"Oh sure, I been askin' directions while I was waitin' for you. It's about fifteen minutes' drive."

"Fifteen minutes?" Hannibal punched the steering wheel in frustration. The van was already going as fast as was possible, but that was far too slow as far as he was concerned. Face needed them _now_, not in fifteen damn minutes!

A car pulled out in front of them without looking and Hannibal slammed a clenched fist onto the horn several times.

"_Goddamnit_!"

"Hannibal!" Murdock grabbed the colonel's arm and managed to wrench it off the horn. "Will you cool it!"

"Face—"

"Was well enough to call for help, so he can't be that bad."

"Face didn't call me, Murdock." Hannibal overtook the car, glaring out at the driver, who didn't even look around. "I don't know who did."

Murdock stared at him, not believing what he'd heard.

"Did it ever occur to you that it might be what we in the A-Team technically call a _trap_?"

Hannibal shook his head curtly. "No. It's not Decker's style, even if he knew what had happened between me and Face. Besides, the guy who called said _red ball one, grass is cut_. Decker doesn't know our codes. Nobody except us knows our codes. Which way?"

"Left." Murdock double-checked the seatbelt, then clutched at the armrest for added security as Hannibal screeched around the corner on two wheels.

_Man, I knew there was a reason the big guy don't let him drive_, the pilot thought grimly. There was no doubt that Hannibal was right though; _grass is cut_ referred to a stabbing or other blade-related injuries, and if it was a trap, then Decker could only have obtained those code words from Face himself, since Murdock hadn't told him and the pilot was sure Hannibal and BA hadn't.

Despite its rather poetic name, River Avenue was a nasty looking neighborhood, with graffiti adorning the walls, most of it gang sigils, obscene words and body parts. Both Hannibal and Murdock could feel unfriendly eyes watching them as they got out the van, the colonel taking care to lock it after him.

"So where—" Murdock began.

"_Hannibal_!"

A young boy raced towards them and flung his arms around the astonished colonel's waist with such force that he knocked him off balance, burying his face in Hannibal's shirt.

The colonel unwound the clinging arms and pushed the boy away firmly, but not ungently.

"Do I know you?"

The kid shook his head, tears streaking down his cheeks.

"Hannibal, you have to help! You have to...he said you would, he said, he said you...but you have to do something!"

Hannibal dropped to one knee and caught hold of the boy's shoulder, steadying him. "Easy, son. Easy. Just...calm down, alright? Breathe."

The boy obeyed, taking in huge gulps of air. "Are you Hannibal Smith?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm Hannibal Smith. Are you the one who called me?"

"Uh huh. You gotta help Mr Goddard, Hannibal, you just _gotta_!"

"Who's Mr Goddard?"

"He's my neighbor, he's hurt real bad. You gotta do something!"

Hannibal tightened his hold a little. "Listen to me. I'll help your neighbor if I can, but first you have to tell me who gave you my number and where he is."

"Mr Goddard gimme the number and said I had to say that about red ball four and bag is torn but I don't know what he meant but he _said_ it was for emergencies and..." The boy's voice broke off and his chest hitched once or twice, then he went on. "And I think it's an emergency 'cause he's dying."

"D'you livehere?" Murdock asked.

That was stretching the word to breaking point, Hannibal thought. People didn't _live_ in places like this. They just existed, like animals in a lair.

The boy shook his head. "No, I live a couple blocks away. I used to play with a kid here only he and his family moved away last week."

Hannibal raised his eyebrows. "So what're you still doing here, kid?"

"Running errands for Mr Goddard. Me and my friend used to go out and buy food for him during school vacation 'cause he doesn't like leaving his apartment an' he paid us a dollar a day, only now my friend's gone an' there's just me and when I brought the food back today I found him..." His voice trailed off. "He's in the bathroom, number fifty three. He's bleeding pretty bad and I put some bandages on but you gotta do something!"

"Alright, kid. Alright. You go on home; we'll take it from here." Murdock glanced at Hannibal as the kid raced off, no doubt glad to be out of there. "Think it's Face?"

"I think we better find out." Hannibal was already striding towards the entrance to the apartment block and the pilot hastened to catch up.

"Man, this place is a dump!" Murdock spoke loudly, not because he was angry or wanted to embarrass the people responsible, but because the sound of a baby bawling its lungs out behind one door and separate rock tracks coming from behind two others made normal conversation impossible.

"No wonder we couldn't find him." Hannibal moved along the corridor. A discarded syringe crunched under his boot and the colonel felt a shiver of revulsion trickle down his spine. "I wouldn't keep my dog in a place like this."

"Billy concurs with that statement, colonel." Murdock hopped over an overflowing trash bag that was writhing with maggots. Apparently taking the trash out was too much work, particularly when there was a hallway just outside the front door doing nothing.

The door to number fifty three was ajar, and Hannibal and Murdock exchanged looks. Both men were thinking the same thing: trouble.

The apartment itself was tiny, no more than a studio bedsit. A wall bed – unmade, stained and sagging badly in the middle – took up most of the space, with a TV positioned on a rickety table at the end. Drink stains had been trodden into the carpet (at least, Hannibal hoped they were drink stains. If they weren't, he didn't want to know about it). Plates encrusted with leftovers had been tossed carelessly in the sink and left there to soak for so long that small white globules of fat were floating in the cold water. Another plate was down by the side of the bed, with not only last night's remains on it but last week's too. Clearly this Mr Goddard, whoever he was – and after seeing this squalor, Hannibal wasn't much inclined to believe it _was_ Face – didn't believe in washing up.

There was an open carton of milk on one side. The colonel didn't need to test it to know it was rancid; that smell was the strongest of all, mixed with sour sweat and leftover food.

"This can't be right." Hannibal's voice was muffled; he'd clamped a hand over his nose and mouth as soon as the stench hit him. "Face wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this."

He picked his way through the mess on the floor to a door and pulled it open, revealing a bathroom that was, if possible, in an even worse state than the rest of the apartment. Damp mould covered the ceiling and was starting to spread down the walls, and the soap was floating in scummy water, the dish surrounded by its own little dark patch. There was a ragged towel hanging from a hook, and the toilet could do with being cleaned. And flushed.

All of this, however, was driven out of Hannibal's mind when he saw Face lying unconscious on the floor, blood pooling around him and a stained razor still in the man's lifeless hand.

_Oh. No. No, no, no, no..._

Murdock shoved Hannibal roughly to one side and dropped to one knee. "Faceman?"

No response. The pilot reached down and rested two fingers in the lieutenant's neck, then glanced up at Hannibal.

"There's a pulse, colonel, but it's very weak. Looks like our little buddy managed to get some bandages on him."

The 'bandages' were socks. Filthy socks, and the kid had made the common mistake of tying them far too tightly and making them more tourniquets than bandages, but he had managed to stop the worst of the bleeding and had probably saved Face's life...although Hannibal didn't like to think about the infections his lieutenant had most likely picked up in the process.

_Well, that at least we can fix once we get him out_.

"Face?" Hannibal knelt on the other side. "Can you hear me? _Face_!"

There was no answer, although Hannibal supposed that wasn't surprising. Given how things had been between them when Face had walked out, even if the lieutenant was, by some miracle, still conscious or semi-conscious, he might not want to acknowledge them.

Hannibal was shocked to see how much weight Face had lost; if he'd been slender before, he was now emaciated, every single rib standing out against his skin. Not only that, it looked like he hadn't bothered taking care of himself; stubble covered his jaw and his clothes were stained, not just with food and drink but now his own blood.

"Face!"

The lieutenant still didn't respond, didn't give any sign he'd heard Hannibal and the colonel felt a chill run through his body. Seeing Face in this state was bad; knowing that he was partially responsible for it was ten times worse. Death was an accepted part of their lives; each member of the Team knew that they could die on any mission, at any time.

_But not like this. Please, not like this_.

Face couldn't die. Hannibal refused to believe that he'd gone through everything that had happened during the last weeks to find the lieutenant, only to have him die a short while later without even regaining consciousness. Even _life _couldn't be that unfair.

"Think we should get him to hospital?" Murdock asked in a more subdued tone. Fighting wouldn't help Face now.

"No." Hannibal didn't stop to think; his answer was automatic. "There's nothing they can do that we can't. Besides, I got him into this. I plan to get him out."

"If he'll let you," Murdock muttered, not quite under his breath. Hearing him, Hannibal whirled.

"Well, do _you_ have any other suggestions?"

"Not really, no," the pilot admitted after a long pause.

"Right." Slightly mollified by Murdock's answer, Hannibal bent down. "Give me a hand here, would ya?"

Murdock's eyebrows shot up. "Colonel, you can't be serious! I mean, don't you think that takin' a comatose body downstairs in full view of everyone is gonna attract a _little_ bit of attention?"

"Murdock, I don't care! The only thing that matters to me right now is getting Face somewhere safe and out of this squat!" Hannibal paused, took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. "Besides, a neighborhood like this? People probably see dead bodies being hauled back and forth every day."

There was a nasty silence as Hannibal realised what he'd just said.

"Faceman ain't dead yet, colonel." Murdock's voice was very quiet.

"I know. So help me get him downstairs and maybe we can keep it like that. No, on second thoughts, wait a minute." Hannibal gestured to the pilot. "Give me your jacket."

Murdock blinked but complied, shrugging off his brown flight jacket and handing it over to Hannibal, who managed to get Face into it. The sleeves just about covered the makeshift bandages around Face's wrists, along with the worst of the bloodstains, and Hannibal hoped that it would be enough. He didn't want other people – even strangers – seeing Face like that. He wasn't sure why; it just seemed wrong to him, somehow.

"Alright. Let's go."

Murdock looped one of Face's arms over his shoulders, Hannibal taking the other, and between them they hauled the unconscious lieutenant more or less upright.

The corridor was still deserted, although the baby was still wailing behind one of the doors and hard rock music was still belting out of another. The two were probably connected, Hannibal thought grimly as he and Murdock maneuvered Face down the stairs and out to the waiting van.

A quick detour on their part got them some first-aid supplies and another, longer and much more expensive detour got them a large, three-bedroom apartment. Usually Hannibal didn't bother splashing out hundreds on a place he wasn't likely to spend much time in, and his ability to take care of himself meant he was rarely bothered even in the low rent district. This time, though, he wanted somewhere nice, somewhere to flush the memory of Face's squat out of his mind. A hotel room wouldn't have been private enough, somehow.

Hannibal glanced at Murdock. "I'll get Face. You get on the phone to BA and tell him where we are."

The down side, of course, was that an unconscious Face attracted more attention here than he had back where Hannibal had found him, but the colonel managed to pass this off by saying Face had been ill and over-exerted himself. As excuses went, it wasn't likely to win any originality awards, but it was plausible – just – and so he managed to get the lieutenant into their new temporary home without any problems.

Pushing open the door to the spare room, Hannibal lowered Face onto the bed and stared down at him. The lieutenant had lost a lot of blood. Maybe too much.

_No, don't think like that._

"Colonel?" Murdock wandered in, somewhat hampered by the large bowl of water he was carrying. "I got the first aid stuff an' BA says he's on his way, but he's drivin'."

Hannibal stared at the pilot, grateful to have a target to vent his emotions on.

"_Driving_? From LA to Chicago? Two thousand _miles_? Couldn't he have gotten in a plane this one time?"

Murdock shrugged, depositing the bowl on the bedside table. "I guess he figured we could do what had to be done."

That was true enough – there was nothing BA could do for Face that Hannibal or Murdock couldn't – but still...

"Then again," Murdock added, "mebbe he thought if you were busy bein' mad at him, you wouldn't be able to worry about the Faceman so much. How's he doin'?"

"Probably a lot better since we got him outta there." Hannibal unwound the filthy socks from around Face's wrists and handed them to Murdock. "Do me a favour: go and burn these or something. I'll try and get him cleaned up."

A closer examination showed that the bleeding had mostly stopped. The socks had stuck to the cuts and removing them had torn the scabs off, causing a slow dribble that didn't last long.

Hannibal picked up a cloth and dunked it in the water, then used it to clean the grime and dried blood off Face's wrists. During the procedure, the lieutenant didn't so much as twitch.

Replacing the cloth, Hannibal unscrewed a bottle of antiseptic, poured a generous amount onto a wad of cotton wool, then hesitated.

"Face?"

No response. The colonel couldn't tell if Face was unconscious, semi-conscious or playing possum – knowing Face, anything was possible – but he thought he owed it to the kid to warn him.

"Face, I don't know if you can hear me in there, but if you _can_, I guess it's only fair to warn you that this is going to sting like crazy."

Reaching down, he took one of Face's wrists and started sponging it. There was no reaction from the lieutenant, even when Hannibal moved onto the other wrist, leaning over Face's body to do it.

_Why, kid_? No, that wasn't the question, Hannibal realised; the question was, _why now_? Had something else happened in the last six weeks, or had it just been a case of everything building up and up until the lieutenant had finally broken under the pressure?

Or had something else happened? Had Face done this, or had he pissed off someone else who had tried to kill him and make it look like suicide? Hannibal didn't think that was likely, but it was better than thinking Face could really have done something like this to himself and so he clung onto it as a fragment of hope.

_Yeah. Even if he was serious, he changed his mind. He gave the kid the number and the code words he needed to call for help._

Well, whatever the truth was, there was only one person who could tell him and he was currently lying unconscious in bed. He'd cleaned the injuries, patched the lieutenant up as best he could. Now all he could do was wait.

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**Okay, so that's it for another chapter! Hope you liked it and if you read, please review!**


	3. Wanting Out

**ACK! First I perform another of my relocations (this time to the Canaries) and then I had to wait a week for internet access! I'm really sorry for the wait; it won't happen like this again. At least, not until February when I'm due to move again...**

**lunaz: **Thanks :)

**trauma: **Well...maybe it will, maybe it won't *evil grin*

**Ecda: **This is true...although it rather depends on Hannibal ;)

**anonymouse:** One update, as requested. As for why Face is out cold...just stopping the blood flow isn't enough to wake a person (at least, not immediately; they'd need a while to recover first).

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Face came back to himself very slowly. The bed was unfamiliar, the smell of clean, fresh sheets and blankets...it was like when he'd been with the Team. The tiniest flex of his wrist told him that someone had bandaged his injuries.

He was in a room. He was in a bed. He was also in Murdock's jacket, which confused him a little.

_Hospital_? No. No, there was no smell of chemicals or disinfectant that Face had learned to associate with hospitals.

One particular smell – cigar smoke – shocked him back into reality and he snapped his eyes open and looked over to where a familiar figure was sitting in an easy chair with a novel.

"Hannibal?" It was a croak of disbelief.

The colonel glanced up from his book, folded the corner of the page down to mark his place and put it on the table.

"Hey kid. How you feeling?" Casual, keep it casual. Never mind that a part of him wanted to grab Face and hug him tighter than he'd ever hugged anyone before...or failing that, slap the kid and then shake him until his teeth rattled for putting him through this ordeal. Of the two, he thought Face would prefer the second course of action.

"What are you doing here?" That question brought a more urgent one to Face's mind and he struggled to sit up. "What am _I_ doing here? Where's here? What happened?"

Hannibal caught hold of the lieutenant's shoulders, restraining him. "Easy. Easy. You're okay now, kid. Lie back down."

Face complied, as much because of the sudden wave of dizziness that bolted through his head as any obeisance to Hannibal.

"Where am I?" he repeated, once the little stars in front of his eyes had stopped twinkling.

"Still in Chicago. We rented an apartment until you were back on your feet."

The lieutenant stared at him, then shook his head slowly. "Goddamn you, Hannibal. How far do I have to go to get away from you?"

"Well, not as far as you _almost_ did!" Hannibal retorted, stung.

Face turned his head away and didn't answer. Hannibal took a deep breath, then let it out in a sigh.

"Kid, if you really want to leave the Team, then I'll let you leave." He reached out and put an arm across the lieutenant's chest as Face attempted to sit up again and do just that. "But _not_ until you're fully recovered and not until I know you're not going to do something like this again."

The lieutenant gave a bitter, cynical laugh. "What do you care whether I do or not?"

"I care, Face, because I care about _you, _even if you do make that damn difficult at times," Hannibal couldn't resist adding.

Face winced away as though the words were physically painful. A casual observer might have thought this was a guilty reaction to the last part of the sentence. Hannibal knew better: during Face's life, the phrase _I care about you_ had become synonymous with the phrase _I'm going to screw you over and then kick you when you're down_.

_Get a grip, idiot. You didn't save his life to take cheap shots at him._

Hannibal looked away, then looked back and took a deep breath.

"Face, I'm sorry."

The lieutenant stared at the ceiling. "Sorry? Why? You found out my secret, Hannibal. You got what you wanted."

"I never wanted _this_!" Hannibal yanked one of Face's bandaged wrists up for emphasis, then let it drop. "Why the hell didn't you call me sooner?"

Face gave a hollow laugh. "Gee, Hannibal, I don't know. Maybe because _you_ were the cause of it?"

Hannibal sat back slowly in his chair, stunned and more than a little hurt. "That's not fair."

The lieutenant looked away. "No. You're right. It's not." Beat. "I'm sorry."

"I don't want your apologies, kid; I just want to know you're not going to do anything stupid!"

Another hollow laugh. "How can I? Something tells me I'm not going to find any sharp objects in the bathroom."

"I didn't say that."

"No, but you meant it, didn't you?" Reaching up, Face felt around his jaw experimentally. "Who shaved me?"

"Murdock. We figured if you woke up suddenly, he was the one you'd be least likely to kill."

Face curled his lip. "Right. You let a crazy guy play with razor blades around my face."

"Well, after what you did with the last razor blade _you_ had—" Hannibal began, then broke off abruptly. Even he could tell when he was crossing the line.

Face stared at him. There was something in his eyes that Hannibal didn't like the look of.

"Get out."

It would have been better if he'd yelled. The low, venomous hiss sent a chill down Hannibal's spine and before he knew what he was doing, he was outside Face's bedroom with the door closed and no real recollection of how he'd got there.

"So, how'd it go?" Murdock inquired from his perch on the kitchen table.

"He's not speaking."

Hannibal's voice was quiet. Just because Face wasn't talking, didn't mean he wasn't listening.

Murdock raised an eyebrow. "Didja think it was gonna be _easy_, Colonel? That Face was gonna melt and instantly recover the instant he laid eyes on the great Hannibal Smith?"

Hannibal leaned against the counter, mind churning. "No, but I didn't think it'd be this hard either. Talk some sense into him, would you, Murdock?"

Murdock raised his eyebrows. "So now Faceman needs sense talkin' into him, jus' because he refused to listen to you?"

"Well—"

"What he _needs_, Colonel, is what he needed before: for you to leave him alone an' let him sort this out his way."

"Murdock, I tried leaving him alone and doing it his way and look where it led!"

Murdock's expression was decidedly unsympathetic as he answered, "Sure, Hannibal. Then you tried goin' in with the big guns an' doin' it _your_ way, and look where _that_ led!

Hannibal's mouth opened and closed several times but no sound came out. Eventually he managed, "You can't seriously think that this was _my_ fault!"

Murdock raised his eyebrows. "Why not, Hannibal? _You_ do."

There was no real answer to that, and so Hannibal decided not to make one. Besides, the words had a nasty ring of truth to them.

"Hannibal, I told you you shoulda let me talk to him an' you didn't! I told you you shoulda let me be the one he saw when he woke up an' you didn't do that either! An' I'm tellin' you now that you ain't goin' anywhere _near_ Face until he invites you himself an' if you can't handle that, then you know where the goddamn door is!"

Hannibal stared at Murdock, speechless. The captain had never spoken to him like this before, even in 'Nam.

"Murdock—"

"Colonel, I know you care about Face an' you wanna help him," Murdock cut across in a more sympathetic voice, "but right now the best thing you can do is back off an' lemme talk to him. Alone," he added pointedly.

Hannibal opened his mouth, then closed it again.

_Dammit, he's right._ Murdock was quite literally the only person in the world who Face had ever learned to trust completely. The two of them seemed to have some kind of bond which went deeper than anything Hannibal had ever managed with his lieutenant. And not only that, but with the amount of time Murdock had spent in the VA, his experience of this kind of thing was a whole lot better than most people's.

Slowly, Hannibal nodded. "Alright. But if he—"

"Ah ah!" Murdock held up a warning finger, then levelled it at Hannibal's nose. "But _nothin'_, Hannibal! You agreed to butt out, so butt out! Lemme talk to him."

He hopped off the table and strolled through the door, closing it behind him, before Hannibal had a chance to respond.

Sitting up in bed, Face eyed Murdock warily. He wasn't stupid, and while he hadn't heard most of Hannibal and Murdock's conversation (although not for lack of trying) he was sure that the pilot's arrival so soon after Hannibal's departure could only mean one thing.

"He sent you, didn't he?"

"Nope!" Murdock hopped onto the chair and crossed his legs fakir-style, grinning.

"Come on, Murdock. I heard you talking. Hannibal figures you're more likely to get through to me and so he backs off and sends you in to try and cure me of whatever he's convinced is making me crazy."

"Oh sure, he _thinks_ he sent me, but I was about ready to come in here anyway." The grin disappeared and Murdock added more seriously, "How you feelin'?"

Face gave a hollow laugh. "How am I feeling? I did everything I could to get away from that son of a bitch and he still tracks me all the way to Chicago and drags my butt back into his little Team. How d'you _think_ I'm feeling?"

Murdock knew better than to try and defend Hannibal; at the moment, Face was in no mood to hear it and it would just lead to the lieutenant shutting him out too.

"Actually, Faceman, I only wanted to know if your wrists hurt."

Face glanced down at the bandages, then shrugged. "They ache a little."

Murdock brought his legs up and hugged them tightly, regarding Face over the knees. "What did it feel like? When you did it?"

The lieutenant tilted his head back as he considered. "Strange. It didn't hurt as much as I thought. It was just tiring. And...relaxing. Like this whole rush of calmness. Nothing seemed to matter. No more running. No more nightmares. I could just lie down and sleep forever."

Put like that, Murdock could almost see the appeal. Almost.

"Of course, that was before Hannibal decided to catapult himself back into my life again. Why can't he just take a hint? He just wants me to be grateful to him for saving me, even though I didn't want to be saved!"

Murdock was silent for a few seconds, not least because Face had directed this little diatribe at the closed bedroom door.

"Why couldn't he leave me alone? Why the hell couldn't that smug, sanctimonious bastard just leave...me..._alone_?"

"Are you askin' me or him?"

Face glanced at Murdock with a surprised look, as though he'd forgotten the pilot was in the room, then relaxed a little.

"You, I guess."

"Aw, Faceman. You know Hannibal better than that. Besides, you never said he _shouldn't_ tear the whole a the US apart lookin' for ya."

Face gave Murdock a brittle smile. "Oh, my mistake. You know, when a guy packs his things and leaves in the middle of the night, I'da thought it was _obvious_ that guy was telling people he didn't want to be found. Guess Hannibal's not as smart as he claims."

Murdock grinned, stretching one leg out. "Faceman, since when does Hannibal do what he's told?"

The lieutenant stared at him for a few minutes, then his lips twitched. He didn't quite laugh, but it was a close thing.

"So how long'd you live in that crummy little apartment anyway?" Murdock wanted to know. "I mean, c'mon Faceman, couldn't you've found a better place'n that?"

Face shrugged, not looking at him. "I wasn't planning to be there that long."

"Uh...when you say that, d'you mean you were plannin' to move out, or—"

"I wanted _out_, Murdock!" Face interrupted. There was a look in his eyes that Murdock really didn't like; he'd seen it too often in the VA not to know what it meant. "I wanted out then and I want out now!"

Murdock studied Face in silence for a few minutes, then shrugged. "Okay."

Face eyed him warily. "Okay what?"

"Here ya go." Murdock pulled his gun out of his waistband and handed it to Face. "Kinda noisy, an' a little messier than what you were plannin', but on the plus side, you won't feel a thing."

Face's jaw dropped. "You mean...you want me to..."

"_Want_ you to? Hell no, Faceman! But I ain't gonna shoot my best buddy, no matter what you say. An' don't you try and con me now, 'cause that won't work either."

Face looked down at the gun and moistened his lips slowly, then back up at Murdock.

"Nice try. That thing's not even loaded."

The pilot shrugged. "Only one way to find out. 'Course, you'll understand if I don't watch you do it."

He turned away; if he kept staring at Face, the lieutenant might take that as a challenge or even Murdock's egging him on. He just hoped he hadn't made a fatal mistake.

A few seconds later, the gun was hurled onto the floor with a muffled thud.

"Leave me alone, Murdock."

Turning back, Murdock shrugged. "Sure, Faceman. You want me to fetch you a drink first?"

The lieutenant still didn't look at him. "Depends. You got any cyanide?"

"Well, I'll check, but I think we're all out. How 'bout some arsenic? Ain't as quick, but it tastes a whole lot nicer."

Face didn't smile, but he didn't snap at Murdock either.

"Or I could jus' get you a nice hot coffee if that's what you want. Long's you _promise_ not to throw it at Hannibal."

"The only thing I want, Murdock, is for you to get out and leave me in peace. Think you can manage that?"

The pilot shrugged again and got to his feet. "Whatever you say. I'll come on back later an' check on you."

Face stared at him for a second or two, then turned his back and didn't answer.

* * *

**Okay, so next chapter done and dusted! Hope you liked it and if you read, please review!**


	4. Midnight Feast

**Velms: Well...maybe ;)**

**lunaz: Thanks :)**

**Jago: Heh. Yeah, I figure with all the time spent in the VA, Murdock's gotten to know a lot more about psychiatry than most people :P**

* * *

"You gave him a_ WHAT_?"

Murdock yanked out of Hannibal's grip and backed off, glaring at the colonel.

"A gun! Okay? You know? Lil black thing, you point it at someone an' pull the trigger, it goes bang? A gun?"

"What were you _thinking_? He's suicidal! Why the hell would a suicidal man need a _gun_?"

Murdock looked at him for a few minutes. "Is that some sorta trick question, Colonel?"

He barely had time to blink before Hannibal had seized him again and slammed him into the wall.

"Do you think this is _funny_, Murdock? Is that it? Huh? You think this is some kind of game?"

The pilot didn't so much as blink. "Sure Hannibal. Go ahead and beat me to a pulp. That'll really help your case with Face, you beatin' up on his best friend."

Hannibal dropped his hold and backed off, mind whirling.

"Was it loaded?"

Murdock folded his arms. "If I say _yeah_, are you gonna throw me into the wall again?"

"No, but I might throw you out the window." Hannibal sat down. "You want to explain what's going on in your head, Murdock? I thought you were going to try and talk Face out of this, not give him your blessing and a .357!"

"He doesn't wanna die, Hannibal. If he did he'da emptied that gun into his head. That means it's gonna be easier to try and talk him outta it, as you put it."

Hannibal opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Alright. Then tell me something else, Murdock: Face gave that kid the code words and told him to call us. So why is he now acting like he wishes we'd never found him?"

Murdock shrugged. "Rough guess? He can't look at you without seein' what went down between the pair a you last time. He feels guilty about it, an' he feels angry 'cause he holds you at least partly responsible for him takin' off, an' that makes him too ashamed to talk to ya." He paused. "Jus' 'cause he doesn't wanna die, Colonel, it don't automatically mean he wants to come back on the A-Team, an' if you go thinkin' it does, you're gonna open up a whole new set a problems."

Hannibal was silent for a few minutes, thinking this through. Eventually he said again, "Alright, but I'm not going to hide from him, Murdock. If Face wants to hide from _me_, that's his problem. I won't go into his room, but I'm not going to skulk around the rest of the apartment either! And if he comes out, I'm not going to pretend he doesn't exist."

Murdock frowned thoughtfully. "No, that wouldn't work. Just...let him do things in his own time, okay? I know you, Hannibal. You go harin' round life's corners on two wheels – an' that's when you're bein' cautious – an' sometimes I think you forget that not everyone's as thick-skinned as you are!"

Hannibal opened his mouth again, realised Murdock was probably right and didn't much like coming to that conclusion.

"Where are you going?" he said instead.

"The VA are gonna be lookin' for me by now. I'm gonna find a call box an' tell 'em I lost me in Montana."

Hannibal's jaw dropped. "_Montana_?"

"You're right. Too far north. Better make it Texas." Murdock considered. "Maybe Fort Worth. I always wanted to go there."

"Why don't you call from here?"

"Someone might trace it. 'Course, they might trace the public call box too, but I'd rather they turn up in the middle a Chicago than knockin' on our door. I'll be back after I'm gone. Try not to talk to Face if you can avoid it, okay?"

Hannibal started to reply, but Murdock had already ducked through the front door and closed it behind him.

A minute or two later, Face's door opened and the lieutenant emerged. He looked surprised, and none too pleased to see Hannibal.

"What are you doing here?"

"I live here, Face, at least until the rent runs out or Decker shows up. Same as Murdock." Hannibal started to add, _same as you_, then thought better of it.

As Face walked over to the kitchen area, Hannibal added, "You want something to eat, kid? I can fix you a sandwich."

Face froze, then half turned with a cynical smile. "Ah. So not only do you not trust me to shave myself, you don't even trust me with a butter knife either."

Hannibal stared at him, a little taken aback. He'd meant it as a peace offering; he'd hoped that by fixing Face that sandwich, it might encourage the lieutenant to start talking to him, or at least stop seeing him as the enemy. Thoughts of Face giving an encore performance with a knife instead of a razor blade hadn't entered his head.

"What? No. I didn't say that, Face."

"Didn't have to." Face put both hands in the small of his back and stretched, wincing at the dull spike of pain in his wrists, then looked away. "You know what, I think maybe I'll just skip the sandwich, read a book or something."

Hannibal shifted his weight. "Not because of me?"

"Why else?" Face turned to go and Hannibal caught hold of his arm.

"Face, what did you do with Murdock's gun?"

The lieutenant closed his eyes, looking more tired than Hannibal had ever seen him. "Well, obviously not what you thought I might do with it."

"Where is it?"

"In the bedroom." Face was careful not to say _my room_; that would have implied he was staying.

"I want it."

Face gave a listless shrug. "Take it, then. I don't care. Maybe I'll make that sandwich after all."

"Are you saying that because you think I might be leaving the kitchen?" Hannibal's voice had taken on a slightly strained tone now; the tone of a man trying desperately to keep a hold on his temper.

"I don't give a damn what you do, Hannibal, so long as you don't do it near me."

Hannibal closed his eyes. This wasn't working. This _really_ wasn't working.

"Face...will you just stand still long enough to listen to me?"

The lieutenant turned an icy look on him. "Why should I, Hannibal? You don't seem inclined to listen to _me_."

He pulled out two slices of bread, hunted around for a few minutes for a plate, then started buttering his sandwich with such force he tore the bread.

Hannibal waited a few minutes to see if Face was going to say anything else, then sighed. "Face—"

"What, Hannibal? You want something?" Face abandoned his sorry-looking sandwich and spun to face the colonel. "Well, that's just tough luck because I don't care! You got that? _I. Don't. Care_."

He strode away, shoving past Murdock, who'd just come back in, and into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

In the ringing silence that followed, Murdock gave Hannibal a long look. "You talked to him, didn't you?"

The colonel shrugged. "A little."

Face opened his door, stalked out, grabbed his sandwich, stalked back into his room and slammed the door again so hard that the picture next to it tumbled off the wall.

Murdock glanced from the fallen picture to Hannibal again. "I won't ask how it went."

* * *

Face screamed.

It didn't last long; reflexes he'd developed in childhood had clamped a hand over his mouth before the rest of him was fully awake.

A hand touched his arm and again, he reacted without thinking, lashing out at this new threat. He wasn't strong enough to do any serious damage, but he felt his hand go around someone's throat and moved it further up under the jaw, cutting off the air supply completely.

"Face. Face! It's me!" Murdock grabbed the lieutenant's shoulders. "It's okay! It's okay! Cool it! It's just me. It's okay," he repeated in a somewhat strangled voice when Face didn't show any signs of relaxing immediately. Fumbling at the nightstand, he manged to find the lamp and turn it on.

The lieutenant winced in the sudden light, then frowned as if trying to place him.

"...Murdock?"

"Yeah...Face...throat..."

Face stared at him, then at the grip he had on his friend's throat and snatched his hand away.

"Oh god, Murdock, I'm sorry, I just—"

"Ah, that's okay, Faceman. Hannibal warned me you might do somethin' like that." The pilot massaged his neck. Face didn't think he could ever remember Murdock actually being upset by anything. "You wanna midnight feast? I'm gonna have one."

"Uh...yeah. Sure." Face rubbed his forehead. Now the shakes of the nightmare had worn off, he discovered he was ravenous; the sandwich he'd had earlier had been the first thing he'd eaten in days.

"Be right back!"

Face lay there, mind whirling as he listened to the various bangings, crashings and slammings coming from the other side of the door (Murdock believed that a midnight feast wasn't a proper midnight feast unless you'd snuck around the kitchen in pitch darkness to make it).

With all the noise, the inevitable happened and Face heard Hannibal's bedroom door open. Seconds later, the light clicked on.

"AIIIIIEEEE!" Murdock let out a theatre screech and then started hissing (Face could imagine the pilot writhing in simulated agony all too well). "The...light! It burns! It _burns_!"

"Murdock..." Hannibal's voice was flat, resigned. "What are you doing?"

"Faceman got the munchies so I'm makin' him a midnight feast, Colonel. You mind turnin' the light out? You're kinda spoilin' it."

_Great. Now he's going to start quizzing Murdock about me_.

To Face's surprise, however, Hannibal just sighed and said, "Okay, but try and keep the noise down. And don't run us out of pickles this time."

"Ten four, Colonel."

The light clicked out, Hannibal's bedroom door closed and a minute or two later, Face's opened to reveal Murdock bearing a tray containing four chicken sandwiches, two candy bars, four cans of soda (two regular, two diet) and two apples.

_Only Murdock would call something like this a midnight feast_, Face thought as Murdock placed the tray on the bed, unwrapped his candy bar and took half of it in a single bite. As he reached out for a sandwich, Face caught sight of a sleeping bag and pillows in the corner and raised cynical eyebrows.

"Is that the suicide watch, Murdock?"

"Huh? Oh—" Murdock swallowed his mouthful and shook his head. "No, it's jus' you got this room an' Hannibal got the other an' BA's gonna take the _other_ room when he gets here an' the couch ain't big enough for me to stretch out on."

"Well...you should still sleep somewhere else. I'm not exactly restful company, in case you hadn't noticed."

"Aw, Faceman, I ain't gonna bail on ya." Murdock cracked open his soda and swigged from it. "Anyway, Hannibal snores."

Face managed a grin. "Oh, you noticed that too, huh?"

"Sure did. Just, uh—" Murdock lowered his voice to a more conspiratorial level— "don't ever tell him."

"Tell him what, Murdock? That the great and powerful Hannibal Smith isn't perfect?" Face's voice dripped sarcasm. "No, don't ever let him in on _that_ little secret. The shock could kill him."

"Face..."

It was such a good imitation of Hannibal that Face, who had been paying more attention to his sandwich, started and looked around guiltily, then caught sight of Murdock's grin and glared at him.

"That's not funny!"

"Oh yes it is!" Murdock scrunched loudly at his apple. "Anyway, like I was sayin', I ain't sleepin' in Hannibal's room 'cause he snores too loudly."

"Yeah. Hannibal snores. And I scream." This in a bitter tone.

"Sure, Face, but you only scream for, what? A couple seconds? Now Hannibal, he snores all night." Murdock finished his apple and started work on one of the sandwiches. "I'd rather bunk in with you than him, no matter how weird your ideas are."

Face blinked, then glanced at Murdock. "What do you mean, weird?"

Murdock swallowed the last bit of his sandwich, washed it down with soda and then became serious again.

"Well, for starters, Faceman...you didn't _really_ think we'd kick you off the Team 'cause a what happened to you, didja?"

Face went very still for a minute or two, then said, "Did Hannibal...did he tell you what happened?"

"Nah, didn't say a word." Murdock took a huge mouthful of soda and gulped it down in two swallows. "But I still say if you thought we were gonna boot you out 'cause a...well, whatever it was, then you're as mad as me. An' that ain't good, Faceman. I don't like competition."

Face managed a grin. "Murdock, you're not mad."

"Sure I am!" Murdock leaned back, stretching luxuriously. "I'm mad you didn't come an' try talkin' to me about whatever it was that got you so frazzled."

Face closed his eyes. He did so slowly, as if the movement was physically painful.

"I didn't want anyone to know. _I_ didn't even wanna know!"

"Sure, Face, but ain't it bad enough runnin' from Decker and his goons without runnin' from us as well?"

The lieutenant opened his eyes again, a little groggily. "I'm not running from you guys, Murdock."

"You're not?" Murdock took another swig of soda. "My mistake. Musta been the fact that you snuck out in the deada night an' didn't tell us you were goin' or even where you were goin'."

Face didn't quite meet Murdock's gaze. "Yeah, well, easy mistake to make, I guess."

"No kiddin'. We're your friends, Faceman."

"_We_?" Face echoed bitterly.

Murdock swatted him on the arm. "_Yes_, we! Hannibal's been outta his mind since you left. An' you know he got a guilt complex—"

"Oh c'mon, Murdock. That guy never felt guilty about anything in his life! He gets on the jazz and the rest of the world can go hang, including us."

"Now Face, that ain't fair an' you _know_ it! How come you're the only one allowed to feel bad about somethin'?"

"It's not...I don't...I just didn't want him to know. I didn't think he'd understand and I was right."

Murdock shrugged. "Well, maybe not understand in the sense of, _boy, I know what that's like_, but that don't mean he'd hate you for it."

"I didn't want him to pity me either, Murdock!"

"Naw, Hannibal don't go in much for pity." Murdock finished his sandwich, got to his feet, wandered over to the bed and poked Face's toes. "Move your legs, Faceman, I wanna sit down."

Face moved them obligingly and Murdock hoisted himself onto the mattress, sitting cross-legged, then dragged Face's legs onto his lap and leaned on them.

"Okay. Now are you gonna tell me what's goin' on inside that sneaky little head a yours, or am I gonna have to grab your feet an' tickle it outta you?"

"Don't you dare!" Face jerked his feet away from Murdock, although he couldn't suppress a grin. Swinging his legs around to the side in an effort to avoid temptation, he leaned back against the wall. A comfortable silence descended, broken only by Murdock's eating (unlike some people, the pilot firmly believed that if you were lucky enough to have a good meal, it was your duty to let the whole world know about it).

"You know...I would have told him." Face's voice was very quiet, but sincere, and Murdock toned down his eating a few decibels. "I just...I wasn't ready, Murdock. And you know what else? I thought I could trust him. You know? I thought he'd let me do it in my own time. Instead he just kept piling the pressure on until he got me to crack." The lieutenant buried his face in his hands.

"Aw, c'mon." Murdock scooted up and patted Face on the back, pretending not to notice the harsh edges of his friend's ribs and spine. "He's sorry."

Face raised his head to stare at Murdock. "_Sorry_! Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Not right now, but maybe in a couple weeks once the world's stopped tumblin' around you. In the meantime...are you gonna eat that candy bar?"

"Help yourself." Face could feel his eyelids drooping, his body demanding rest. "Murdock?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry about your throat."

Murdock patted him again. "Aw, that's alright. Ain't no one here knows about it 'cept you an' HM Murdock." He unwrapped Face's candy bar and wolfed it down in a few bites, then hopped off the lieutenant's bed.

"HM. Yeah." Face leaned back, snuggling down among the pillows, torn between a desire to sleep and fear of the nightmares. Something occurred to him, something he'd wondered about for a long time and he voiced it (rather drowsily) before it could get away.

"Murdock?"

"Yeah, buddy?"

"What _is_ your first name?"

Murdock grinned, shook his head but didn't answer. When he looked over at Face again, the lieutenant was already asleep.

* * *

**Okay, so another chapter done (and now things are going to get interesting ;)) Hope you liked it and if you read, please review!**


	5. Under Pressure

**Sorry about the wait on this one; apart from the problems earlier, I had **_**serious**_** writer's block for this chapter. Not sure why...hopefully it's gone now ;)**

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The next person to suggest that a career in the US Army was a wonderful opportunity to Visit Exotic Locations and Learn A Useful, Well-Paid Trade was going to get his nose broken, Decker vowed as he picked his way along the filthy hallway. And that included recruiting officers.

Mind you, he supposed this place could be considered exotic...if by _exotic_ you meant _smelly, full of insects_ and _disease-ridden_. This was probably the only place in the entire US where you ran the risk of getting cholera. Decker had been on more hygienic bomb sites.

_River Avenue. Some river_.

Well, if the tip was right and Peck _was_ here, then the others couldn't be too far away. Hell, even if they weren't, he'd be happy with just one of the A-Team. He could use Peck as bait for Smith, if it came to it.

He had encountered a slight difficulty, namely a certain reluctance of the people living here to open their doors to anyone wearing a uniform. Since he had no proof that Peck was actually there (and had no idea which apartment he might be in if he was) he couldn't just go kicking down doors with impunity, much as he would have liked to.

The first door he'd knocked on had had rock music blaring out so loudly that Decker wasn't surprised nobody heard him. The second had a screaming baby. The third had screamed at him that he'd already paid the rent and if he came back again, he (Decker) would soon be trying to breathe through a hole in the chest. The fourth had been opened by two kids who – Decker assumed – were brothers, and the oldest of which who couldn't be over seven. There was no sign of their parents.

Crane looked a little skeptical, but Decker – who had learned never to dismiss a potential source of information out of hand and, unlike a lot of adults, wasn't too arrogant to listen to kids – handed the Wanted poster down.

"We're looking for these men. We heard one of them had been spotted around here."

The younger child took the poster and examined it with a solemn expression that was only slightly marred by the fact that he still had his thumb in his mouth. Shaking his head, he handed it up to his elder brother, who frowned slightly.

"Hey, that guy looks like Mr Goddard!"

"No he doesn't! Mr Goddard doesn't look like that!"

"Does too!"

"Does not!"

"Does too!"

"Does not!"

"Does too!"

"Does not!"

Decker, realising that this brilliant debate was likely to go on indefinitely, raised his voice.

"Which one?"

"That one." The older boy pointed at the picture of Templeton Peck. "He _kinda_ does, only...he kinda doesn't. Maybe if he shaved..."

"Mr Goddard's nice," the younger one informed an awkward looking Crane. "He buyed me candy."

"That right?" Decker glanced at his second in command, then back down at the child, who nodded.

"Whatcha gonna do to him, mister?"

His brother rounded on him. "You can't call Army guys _mister, _stupid! They're all called _sir_ or _General_!"

"Ohhh." The younger one didn't seem too bothered by this and he returned his look to Decker. "Whatcha gonna do to Mr Goddard, Sir General?"

Decker unbent enough to smile very slightly. Cute kid.

"If he really is Mr Goddard, son, I'm not going to do anything to him. But I need to talk to him and ask him if he's seen this man. Where does he live?"

"Down there." The boy pointed carefully down the corridor; not, Decker was disappointed to note, back the way they'd come, but further down. "Number fifty three."

"Thanks, son." Decker jerked his head at Crane and they went on down, ignoring the other apartment doors until they came to number fifty three, which was already open.

That coupled with the stench and general neighborhood was enough to warn Decker what kind of place they were likely to find inside, and he wasn't disappointed. Had he thought the corridor was a hovel? He was wrong. _This_ was a hovel. The stench was unbelievable, causing Crane to recoil and choke.

"Think Peck's here, sir?"

Decker didn't reply. The immediate answer was _no_; Peck would never have set foot in this building, much less this apartment, if he didn't have to.

_Alright, genius. What if he _did_ have to_?

His colleagues often said that Decker had no imagination. This wasn't true. Decker had plenty of imagination; what he lacked was empathy. He could think up a complicated plan of attack, imagine most of the possible variables and work out a way to counter them; he just didn't bother caring how that plan would affect the people involved.

But even with his imagination, even knowing Hannibal Smith as well as he did (and there was probably no one alive who knew Smith better or had known him for longer than Decker) the colonel couldn't come up with a reason or a plan that would require Peck to squat in this place. The A-Team did sometimes rent an apartment, particularly if there was no other accommodation available and they were going to be in town for some time, but this was _Chicago_, not some tiny little one-horse town in the middle of nowhere! Decker could name ten or fifteen motels in this city, and that was without thinking about it.

_So why the hell would Peck be staying here_?

He didn't think they'd find anyone in the bathroom – whoever had lived here had probably made tracks out of it as fast as they could and at the earliest opportunity, and quite honestly, Decker couldn't blame them – but military regulations required them to search it and so they stepped inside.

There was no sign of a struggle, but a blood-stained razor and reddish-brown stains were on the bathroom floor.

"Sir?" Crane sounded doubtful. "You think Peck would've..."

"I can't think why." Decker glanced around. Despite his personal feelings, even he could admit that the A-Team had to deal with the kind of pressure every day that would drive a normal person insane...except Smith and his cronies weren't exactly what you'd call _normal_. If their daily lives were going to drive them over the edge, it would have happened long before now. Granted you could never predict when these things were going to happen, but even if Peck had been here and had been depressed enough to bail on the world, Smith and his damn bleeding heart would never have let him do it.

_But Peck knows Smith as well, doesn't he, Decker? Those two are like father and son, and if Peck really wanted to slash his wrists, he'd know that Smith would never let him._

The caller _had_ only reported seeing one member of the A-Team, now that Decker thought about it, which was unusual in itself. Normally they stuck together like glue.

_So the pressure becomes too much for Peck, he takes off to this squat and slashes his wrists._

But why come all the way to Chicago to do it? The A-Team didn't live together, that much was known about them. Why didn't Peck just cut his wrists in his own apartment in LA?

For that matter, what had happened to the body? There were no drops of blood on the floor, which meant that he hadn't stood up and walked out, and there was no trail of blood either, so he hadn't been dragged out by anyone.

Carried? That was the most likely explanation, but by whom?

_Smith or Baracus, if it really was Peck_. Either of those men would easily be strong enough to carry Peck, and they wouldn't have to carry him far; just down the stairs and into the van.

_And then where_? A hospital was out of the question; any doctor or nurse worth their salt would recognise injuries like that for what they were and call in the local shrink, and that would lead to questions the A-Team wouldn't want to answer.

"Let's move out, Captain. They can't have gone far, and they'll still be in that van. We'll check the motels around this area."

Crane hesitated. Decker's instincts verged on supernatural at times – like Smith, he had a tendency to hit the long shots – but his drive to capture the A-Team _had_ been known to overrule his better judgment.

"Sir?"

"What is it, Captain?" Decker's voice was brusque; he was not an officer who valued unasked-for contributions from his subordinates.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" That was always a good line to use on Decker, even if you were just asking the time.

"Be quick."

"Sir, with respect, sir, I think you're guessing too much here."

"Is that right?" There was a warning in Decker's voice, but Crane ignored it. He knew his commanding officer well, and he also knew that Decker wasn't the kind of man to dismiss a suggestion just because it wasn't his own.

"Peck is the most commonly sighted member of the A-Team, sir, and a lot of those sightings turn out to be fake. Smith's almost never seen at all, sir, and Baracus…well, it's impossible to mistake _him_. We have no confirmation that the person living here _was_ Peck beyond the word of two little kids – and even they couldn't agree on it! – we have no confirmation of any other A-Team sighting in this area _at all_, but you've spotted a razor in the middle of a bloodstain and now you think that not only was Peck here, but Smith and Baracus snuck up here, grabbed him and took him away after he'd attempted suicide! And that's another thing, sir; there aren't any blood trails on the ground, so how do we know that attempt wasn't successful? Maybe whoever was here died and one of the neighbors bundled him up in some trash bags and threw him out to stop the cops coming down on them."

Decker was silent. Crane was right, of course; there was nothing beside his own instincts to suggest that Peck had been the one here or that the suicide attempt had been unsuccessful.

"Perhaps we should ask some of the other residents if they saw something, sir," Crane persisted.

"No." One thing Decker knew for certain was that people who lived in a place like this never saw anything. He could kick his way into one of the apartments and blow Crane's brains out in front of whoever was there, and that person still wouldn't have seen anything. "No. But we'll check the hospitals, see if anyone from here's been admitted." If they had, then whoever lived here wasn't Peck. If not, Decker supposed the morgue was the next step, or the police, and if neither of _those_ avenues turned up anything, then he'd just have to think of something else.

Once they were back in the car, though, he radioed out, ordering all units to be on the lookout for the A-Team van. Decker hadn't lived as long as he had by ignoring his instincts, and those instincts told him that the Team was somewhere close.

_Very_ close.

* * *

If Hannibal noticed the bruising around Murdock's throat the next morning, he didn't say anything.

Face was up and about and if he didn't greet the colonel, at least he didn't storm out the room again. The lieutenant was still a little weak and his dramatic exit yesterday had taken more out of him than he'd realised; now all he wanted to do was to sit quietly and brood. Hannibal had more sense than to try and talk to him again, and apart from giving him a coffee (Face didn't thank Hannibal, but he didn't snap at him either) ignored him.

It wasn't until early afternoon that Hannibal got a chance to talk to Murdock, Face having fallen asleep on the couch.

"Is he okay?" The colonel kept his voice very quiet. Face was a light sleeper.

Murdock looked at Hannibal without any real expression. "He'll live, if that's what you mean."

"You know it's not what I mean!" Hannibal slumped down onto a chair and ran his hands through his hair, staring into his coffee. "I heard him scream last night." His voice was very quiet and Murdock felt a pang of sympathy. "Do you have any idea how damn _helpless_ I feel right now?"

The pilot gave him a long look. "Yes, Colonel, I do. Because I felt exactly that same way after you kept me an' BA away from the Faceman an' he took off."

Hannibal closed his eyes, counted to ten and then opened them again. "Alright, Murdock, here's an idea. Why don't we pretend that I already feel bad enough over what happened and I don't need you rubbing it in any more! I just want to know..." His voice tailed away and Murdock finished the sentence.

"What he said about you? Well, he said you're too busy bein' on the jazz to feel guilty about what happened. He said he didn't want you to know 'cause he didn't think you'd understand. He said you kept houndin' him an' doubling the amount of pressure, since asides from bein' on the job, he had to worry about stoppin' you finding out. He said he thought he could trust you."

Much as they stung, Hannibal swallowed most of Murdock's remarks, but that last one hit home hard, and he jerked bolt upright. "He _can_ trust me, Murdock, you know that!"

"To do what, Hannibal? Punch him? Throw him around a room and into walls?"

Hannibal got to his feet, moving slowly as he stared at the captain. "You forgot to mention that he had already tried to concuss and strangle me a couple days earlier, _and_ that he was trying to rearrange my face at the time!"

"Colonel, I ain't sayin' you shouldn'ta defended yourself, an' I don't think Face blames you for that either. I'm sayin' you shoulda left well enough alone once he'd stopped tryin' to put your lights out."

Hannibal sat down again. An active man by nature, he wasn't used to dealing with problems that had to be solved by someone else, or by sitting and waiting.

"Yes, alright, but what now?" Hannibal shook his head. "You know him better than anyone. I'm trying to make it up to him, but he won't let me, so would you mind telling me just _what the hell I'm supposed to do_?"

Murdock shrugged. "Talk to him."

The colonel slammed a frustrated hand down onto the table. "What do you think I've been _trying_ to do, Murdock? I want to help him. What's so bad about that?"

Murdock shrugged again and poured himself another bowl of cereal. "Sometimes the only way ta help someone is _not_ to help them. Faceman don't want a lecture, Hannibal, an' he don't want advice. What he wants is someone who'll jus' sit an' listen to him."

"What he _wants_," Face said in sub-arctic tones from the doorway, "is for his so-called friends to keep their damn noses out of his business and quit trying to tell him what he does and doesn't want!"

There was a long, long silence. Even Murdock didn't seem able to think of anything to say.

"Face..."

"What? You gonna offer me another gun? Dare me to kill myself again?"

"Face, we were just—"

"Yeah, I can see what you were _just_ doing! I'm not an idiot, although you guys treat me that way half the time!"

"Face—"

"Save it." It was a snarl, and for one terrible moment Hannibal thought Face was actually going to attack Murdock. "You know, I kinda expected this from Hannibal, but you? I thought you understood."

Hannibal stepped forward. "Face, all we want to do is help—"

"_I don't want your goddamned help, Smith_! I want...I don't...I just...just _leave me alone_!"

He backed away from both of them, not stopping until he was inside his room and could slam the door again. In the ringing silence, Hannibal glanced at Murdock.

"Well, at least now it's not just me he hates."

The pilot shrugged. "You know how he gets with people talkin' about him like he ain't there." There was no accusation in his voice; it was a fact, pure and simple. "An' just because he's mad, that don't mean I ain't right."

Hannibal shifted his gaze to Face's closed door, then back to Murdock.

"Murdock, if he's still listening to you, then tell him I want to talk to him. I'll wait, if that's what he wants, but I want to talk."

Murdock nodded. "Sure Hannibal. But ya know...if you wanna talk to him, then you gotta pick subjects he doesn't get defensive about."

"Yeah. You know, Murdock, lately that's kinda like picking a fish that doesn't swim." Hannibal picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. "I'm going to get some groceries. Anything you want?"

Murdock considered. "Maybe a six pack a 7-Up? Or Dr Pepper for the Faceman? You know how much he likes that stuff."

Yes, Hannibal did know. In fact, _like_ was too mild a word; despite his expertise and love of various wines and champagnes, Face had a secret passion for Dr Pepper that very few people outside the Team knew about.

"Alright, I'll see what I can do." Hannibal glanced at the clock. "While I'm gone, try and get Face to calm down, would you? I understand I'm not his favorite person right now, but what the hell does he think I'm going to do to him?" There was a bite to Hannibal's tones.

Murdock shrugged. "Well, Colonel, you did ram your arm down his throat an' rummage around in his stomach until you could yank his secret outta there."

"That's the point, though. What other secret could he have?" Specifically what other secret could Face have that was worse than the one Hannibal already knew?

The pilot regarded him for a few seconds, then said quietly, "You really don't get it, do you?"

"If I got it, Murdock, we wouldn't be in this mess!"

"Faceman always had walls up, Hannibal. You want him to talk to ya, you gotta get through those walls, now you know that. The difference between you an' me is that _I_ knock on the door an' _you_ break out the siege weapons."

There was a long, long silence. Then Hannibal said, "I'll be back in a couple hours," and walked out.

Left alone, Murdock wandered over to the couch. It was piled high with cushions, including one that was almost large enough to double as a beanbag. Murdock picked it up, holding it in front of him like a shield, and knocked on the bedroom door.

"Hey Faceman!"

"_I said leave me alone, Murdock_!"

"Face, open this door!" When nothing happened, Murdock rolled his eyes. "Faceman, I have got a big fluffy cushion here an' I am _not_ afraid to use it!"

The door opened about six inches. "A...what? What are you going to do, pillow fight me into submission?"

"If I gotta! Now...open...UP!" Murdock threw his whole weight against the door, sending Face staggering back, and forced his way inside, holding up the cushion. "Faceman, don't you make me whap some sense into ya with this."

Face shoved him away. "So that's what it comes down to, after all these years? Do as you're told and you won't get hurt? I guess I shouldn't be surprised – it's how that damn orphanage was run, at least as far as I was concerned – but I didn't think I'd have to hear it from you as well!"

"Okay, that's it!" Murdock threw the cushion at a surprised Face, who caught it reflexively. "Time out! Whatever happened to ya, whatever's got you too ashamed to look at us, it's got you behavin' like the jerk of the century—"

Face laughed bitterly. "News bulletin, Murdock; I _am_ a jerk! You're the only one stupid enough to believe otherwise! Stupid and naive and..."

"Go ahead, Faceman, say it. Stupid, naive, an' _crazy_, right?"

The lieutenant colored and looked away.

"Goddamn you, Murdock." There was none of the anger he'd shown to Hannibal, just a quiet despair. "What do I have to do to make you get out?"

Murdock eyed him for several seconds, then said very quietly, "Just ask. _Ask_, not order; we ain't in the Army now, Face, an' even if we were, I happen to outrank you, remember?"

"You also happen to be insane, so I don't think your _rank_ counts for anything here, Murdock!" There was a short pause, then Face added, "Just...get out."

He didn't look at Murdock and the pilot rolled his eyes.

"An' now you're ashameda what you jus' said an' you're tryin' to get me out so you don't hafta look at me an' be reminded of it? Well, guess what: that ain't gonna work this time!"

Face stared at him, then started for the door. "I'm not gonna stand here and listen to this, Murdock."

Murdock caught hold of him and pushed him onto the bed. "Then sit down! Or lie down, or kneel, or squat, or do a handstand; I don't care, Faceman! But you _are_ gonna listen to it!"

Face curled his lip. "Right, Murdock. You know, last night you were my best buddy and it was all midnight feasts together. Now you're on my case too?"

Murdock rolled his eyes again. "Face, what kinda stupid, lousy friend would I be if I let you screw yourself over like this?"

The lieutenant raised his eyebrows. "Gee, Murdock, I don't know. What kinda stupid, lousy friend _are_ you?"

Something long suppressed finally bubbled up in Murdock and he snapped, "I'll tell ya what kinda stupid, lousy friend I am; I'm the kind who sits back watchin' you guys have relatively normal lives while I spend year after year hidin' in a mental hospital an' swallowin' all that _crap_ from BA because I don't wanna see any of you wind up in jail! Y'know, there're days in that place when I would _love_ ta jus' go to the movies, or out to a fast food joint, or even out for a drive. Instead I gotta sit in that same room or those same grounds day in, day out, watchin' the world go by without me until _you_ guys decide you want me for somethin'!"

The silence was long, and absolute.

"You mean...you're..._not_ crazy?" Face's voice was very small as he stared at Murdock, his own problems temporarily forgotten as he tried to process this.

The pilot sat down beside him with a sigh. "Ah, Faceman...I don't know _what_ I am anymore an' that's the truth. I been spendin' so much time actin' like a Looney Tunes that now I ain't sure I can break the habit. Part of me ain't sure I even _want_ to, ta be honest. It's kinda liberatin', bein' loopy."

"But...all these years." Face shook his head, feeling dazed. "The...the breakdown, at the end of Vietnam...was that..."

"Oh, _that_ happened. Or so they tell me. I don't remember much about it, to tell ya the truth. All I know is one minute I'm in Nam gettin' ready to fly an' the next I'm strapped to a bed in a VA hospital an' someone's tellin' me I've been there for about two weeks."

Face stared at him, things tumbling into place. "That time...you were going to be released and when we showed up...and Hannibal came out and said you'd had a relapse—does he know?"

Murdock hesitated before replying, "I think he suspects, or he did then. Now I think he's bought into it hook, line an' sinker." He twined and untwined his fingers in his lap, staring into space. "An' I'm not too sure that I ain't either."

Face stared at his friend, feeling wretched. He knew he ought to say or do something, to try and comfort Murdock – how many times had Murdock comforted him over the years? – but the words wouldn't come. Eventually he put an awkward hand on the pilot's shoulder.

"Why..." He coughed, tried again. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

Murdock shrugged. "I didn't want to take the chance a blowin' my cover. If the military find out for sure I'm a member of the A-Team, you guys're gonna lose one a the only advantages you got. It's better this way." He reached up to cover Face's hand with his own, and the lieutenant wasn't sure if Murdock was looking for comfort or offering it. "An' I ain't blamin' ya, Faceman. Fact, I'm kinda proud. I mean, I _know_ I done a good job if I fooled you."

"But...you and BA..."

"Aw, that big angry mudsucker's jus' a scared li'l teddy bear underneath. Jus' show him a little love an' affection, give him a cuddle—"

"—and he'll break both your arms," Face interrupted, only half kidding. "Where is he, anyway?"

"Drivin' over."

The lieutenant frowned. "What? From LA? Shouldn't he be here by now?"

Murdock shrugged. "Maybe he ran into Decker an' decided to lead him off our trail." He didn't say what they both knew; that any sign of mental instability, however small, would ward BA off like a chainsaw.

"Maybe we got lucky and Decker picked up Hannibal and threw him in the slammer."

Murdock looked at Face quietly. "You don't mean that."

Face averted his gaze. "No. No, you're right. I don't."

"An' speakin' a Hannibal, he told me ta tell _you _that he's asked me ta talk to you an' ask you ta tell me to tell him what you said when I told _you_ that _he_ wants to talk to you too."

The lieutenant drew himself up slightly. "Oh really? Well, you can tell Hannibal that..." He paused, replaying Murdock's message in his mind. "Wait...what? Murdock, can you repeat that?"

"I doubt it. But I'll give you the gist of it, Faceman; Hannibal wants ta talk to ya."

"What?" Face stared up, genuine alarm in his expression. "No! Murdock, no way, I can't do that! Tell him I don't want to see him!"

"Alright, Faceman, alright." Murdock patted the lieutenant on the shoulder. "Breathe. I'll tell him you wanna wait a spell."

"No. Murdock, I can't." Face stared at his hands. "Hannibal's...he just...I can't stand the way he _looks_ at me...with his eyes..."

Murdock hopped onto the bed, cuddling the fluffy cushion to him and snuggling into it. "Well, how d'you want him to look at ya, Faceman? With his kneecaps?"

Face shook his head, still not looking at him. "Murdock...Hannibal got us out of that damn POW camp in Vietnam. He held it together, he was the first human being I'd ever met in my whole miserable life who didn't let me down, or try to use me or screw me over just for the fun of it—"

"What 'bout me?"

Face glanced at Murdock and managed a grin. "You were the second."

"Fair enough. Go on."

"It's just...he was always so clear headed and in control of everything and...all I ever wanted to be...was him."

Murdock looked at Face for a moment, and then pushed the cushion at him. The lieutenant glanced at him, surprised, then took it.

"And now he just...it's like he's ashamed of me. Like he can't stand to be in the same room as me. He won't even come in here any more."

Murdock raised his eyebrows. "I see. An' you don't think that might have somethin' to do with the fact that you keep tellin' him to get outta any room you happen to be in?"

Face opened his mouth, then shut it again, going red. "Uh..."

Murdock grinned broadly. "C'mon now, Faceman, you can't get angry at Hannibal for doin' what you tell him. 'Sides, how many people d'ya think he takes orders from? You're pretty special."

The lieutenant looked away. "Yeah. The local nuthouse is full of _special_ people like me."

"Okay." Murdock reached down and caught hold of Face's elbows, pulling him to his feet. "That. Is. _It_! I do hereby decree that now an' henceforth from this moment on there shall be an _end_ ta the mopin' of the Facial One! An' I further decree that the Facial One an' the Murdockian One shall now sally forth on a sacred pilgrimage to the mystical an' holy land of Kitt Chen to bake gingerbread men. C'mon, I think we got all the stuff we need an' Hannibal's out buyin' groceries so we got the place to ourselves."

Face stared at him, then managed a small smile. "Gingerbread men, huh?"

"Yep. Ain't nothin' in this world can't be solved by eatin' your enemies in effigy. I'll even let you lick out the mixin' bowl." Murdock tugged Face out of the bedroom. "Let's go."

They went. Memories of cooking therapy at the VA and also his own grandmother's way of coping with the blues (bake cookies and inhale the smell from the oven) had prompted Murdock to buy the ingredients while Face was still unconscious. Although he'd intended to make it a joint effort, in reality it was Murdock himself who did most of the baking, as Face claimed that his wrists were far too painful for anything as strenuous as measuring ingredients, mixing or rolling out gingerbread, but if Murdock wanted help cutting them out or eating the end result, he only had to say.

They'd put the tray in the oven to cook and were just getting started cleaning up the mess when the front door opened.

"Guys? It's me."

Murdock grinned. "Hey, Hannibal!"

The colonel strolled in, two grocery bags under each arm, which he deposited on the table.

"Something smells good."

"Sure does. We're bakin' gingerbread men! You want one? You can pretend it's Decker."

Hannibal looked a little dubious. "You've been doing most of the work, right Murdock?"

Murdock fixed Hannibal with a look. "Are you implyin' that my right-hand man Face here ain't a good cook?"

"Yes."

Face glared at Hannibal, but kept his mouth shut. Even with what had happened between him and the colonel, he couldn't justifiably have objected to the comment. Cooking was not one of his talents, and BA had often been heard to remark that the lieutenant would burn the breakfast cereal given half a chance.

"Should be done in about twenty minutes," Murdock announced.

"Good. Well, while we're waiting—" Hannibal reached into his jeans, pulled out a folded sheet of paper and handed it to Murdock— "what do you make of this?"

Murdock took the paper and unfolded it, revealing a Missing poster. Frowning, he studied the picture.

"Ain't that the girl we were hired to rescue in Sacheton? Chrissy Allen?" It seemed a lifetime ago now.

Hannibal gave him a rather twisted smile. "Is it?"

Murdock looked a little closer. It was the same girl, there was no doubt about that. Same photo, right down to the small mole on her upper lip. There was just one small difference.

"Missing...Jolene Hanson? What?" He stared at Hannibal, then back at the flier again. "But...how...who..."

Hannibal sat down at the table. "Yeah. That's pretty much what I said too."

Murdock turned the flier over and over in his hands, as though he thought Hannibal had stuck a picture of Chrissy Allen over another girl's Missing poster.

"Hey Faceman, take a look at this."

The lieutenant took it gingerly, as though afraid it might bite, and examined it, then frowned.

"So...who is she? Chrissy or Jolene?"

Hannibal shrugged. "No idea." He paused, then a slow grin appeared on his face. "But I know someone who might be able to help us."

Murdock stepped forward just in time to stop the colonel picking up the phone. "An' who might that be? 'Cause if you're tryin' ta pull another scam over Decker's eyes—"

"Murdock, that happened _once_ and it worked to perfection."

"Perfection bein' the four of us gettin' chased by twenty military cars an' havin' ta crash through two roadblocks?"

"To someone who needs the jazz like the rest of us need oxygen? Sounds pretty perfect to me." Face didn't quite look at Hannibal as he said this, and the colonel wasn't sure whether he was kidding or not.

"Are you saying you don't approve of my liking the jazz, as you call it?"

When the lieutenant didn't seem inclined to answer, Murdock spoke up. "It ain't a question a _likin_' it, Colonel. You're completely addicted to it."

"Murdock, that is _not_ true!" Hannibal bit off the end of a cigar, spat it into his hand and dumped it in the trash, then lit up and inhaled, taking care to keep away from the kitchen. "I'm not addicted to the jazz."

"Oh really?"

"Of course. I mean, I could give it up any time I liked. It's just not a good time right now."

Face glanced at Murdock. "Denial?"

"Uh huh."

In spite of the situation, Hannibal grinned. If Face was ribbing him about the jazz...well, he wasn't naïve enough to believe that this put them back on their old footing, nowhere near, but it was a step in the right direction.

"Murdock, you spent a couple days at Tawnia's place, right? When we were hunting for Face?"

Face looked sharply at Hannibal, but there was no anger or reproach in the colonel's tone and so he looked at Murdock instead. "You did?"

"_Days_, Faceman, not nights. An' yeah, Colonel, I did. Why?"

"Do you remember how long she's staying there?"

Murdock hesitated. "Yeah, she's, uh, she's here for a while. But Hannibal...I ain't sure Tawnia's gonna be able ta help us."

Hannibal shrugged. "It's got to be worth a try. At the very least, she'll know if the paper did a story on either of these girls."

Picking up the phone, he dialed Tawnia's number.

"Tawnia? It's Hannibal."

He winced and jerked the phone away from his ear until the echoes from Tawnia's shriek of astonished delight had died away, then brought it back.

"Yeah, kid, it's good to talk to you too. How's tricks? How's that husband of yours?"

The sudden silence on the other end of the phone coupled with Murdock's frantic _shutupshutupshutUP_ gestures on the other side of the table told Hannibal he'd picked the wrong subject.

"Tawnia?"

More silence. Hannibal got the message.

"What happened?"

He was half expecting it, but Tawnia's reply, screamed down the phone at the top of her lungs, still startled him.

"_YOU AND EVERY LYING, CHEATING BASTARD WITH A DICK OUGHTA BE PUBLICLY CASTRATED AND FED TO RABID PIGEONS, SMITH_!"

The line went dead and Hannibal stared at the phone in his hand, then at Face and Murdock.

"Rabid _pigeons_?"

* * *

**Okay, so that's it for this chapter! Next one's half done, so it should be up a little quicker :) Anyway, hope you liked it and if you read, please review!**


	6. Car Chase

One slammed phone was nowhere near enough to deter Hannibal (although the comment about rabid pigeons was a new one on him) and so he picked up the receiver and dialed again.

"Hello?"

"Rabid _pigeons_?" Hannibal said again.

"Hannibal?" Emotions were still running high in Tawnia's voice. "Now isn't a good time. Where are you?"

"On the phone to you." Hannibal wasn't about to reveal his location over the telephone, even to Tawnia. "Are you okay?"

Tawnia swallowed. "Not really, but why're you calling me?"

"I need you to find out about someone for me. Believe me, I wouldn't ask you if I wasn't desperate."

In spite of herself, Tawnia managed a grin. "Thanks Hannibal. You really know how to flatter a girl."

Hannibal chuckled. "Alright, let me rephrase that. You're my last hope, if you can't do it no one can, either of those sound better? I need your contacts at the paper."

Tawnia bit her lip, an unpleasant roiling in the pit of her stomach.

"Hannibal...I, uh, I don't work at the paper anymore."

"You don't?" Hannibal sounded astonished. "What happened?"

"I...quit."

"You quit," Hannibal repeated, glancing at Murdock, who tried very hard to look as though this was news to him. "Tawnia, if I ask what happened, are you going to shout at me about rabid pigeons and slam the phone down again?"

"We had a disagreement on the honeymoon. He didn't think I should have married him."

This statement wasn't too surprising to Hannibal, who had seen too many marriages between beautiful young women and men old enough to be their father end in divorce, although not, he admitted to himself, on the honeymoon.

"Did he say why?"

"Because—" even on the other end of the phone, Hannibal could hear Tawnia swallow— "I, um, well, we had a little too much to drink, and I blurted out something that I shouldn't have."

"What was that?" Hannibal kept half an eye on Murdock as he said this, noticing that the pilot suddenly seemed very interested in his coffee.

"I told him I was already married. To someone else."

For a moment, Hannibal was sure he must have misheard, or failing that, misunderstood.

"You told him _what_?"

"I thought he was a nice guy! I thought he would _understand_! And like I said, I was drunk."

"Tawnia, telling your new husband that he isn't really your husband because you're already married to another man...that's one hell of a bombshell to drop on the poor guy. Particularly on the honeymoon."

"That _doesn't _explain what he was doing with his research assistant in her tent the next night! What is it with you men and blonds? And couldn't he at least have waited until his _wife_ was asleep!"

Hannibal puffed on his cigar. "Except technically speaking, you _weren't_ his wife."

The line went dead for the second time and Hannibal replaced the phone, grinning. It was good to know that the old Tawnia was still in there.

"Alright, Murdock. Talk. Tell me what you _should_ have told me before letting me pick up that phone."

Murdock, who had finished his share of the gingerbread men, opened the top cupboard and pulled out a large bag of chocolate covered peanuts.

"Tawnia caught her husband sleepin' with his research assistant. Well...not actually _sleepin_', they were—"

"Yeah, I think I can guess what they were doing, Murdock."

"I got ten bucks says ya can't, Colonel. Turns out this guy's kinda adventurous when it comes ta bouncin' on the bedsprings."

"Murdock..."

"Well, anyway, Tawnia left him. Actually...well, I _say_ she left him, Hannibal, but it was more a case a him bootin' her off the research team. Said he wasn't gonna be no bigamist an' that Tawnia should crawl on back ta her husband. She did, only he refused ta give her a divorce, so six months down the line she finds herself in some crummy little apartment with five hundred dollars."

"Where'd she get the five hundred dollars?" Face asked curiously.

"Faceman, believe me when I say you really would _not_ believe me if I toldja. An' that goes double for you, Colonel. I only know about it 'cause she called me at the VA 'bout a month before the whole Sacheton thing went down. I snuck out ta check on her. An' _man_, Hannibal, you thought the place we found Faceman in was a dump, you shoulda seen Tawnia's. Y'know, the guy who owned it shoulda _paid_ her ta live there. Anyway, I helped her escape an' set her up at a nicer apartment."

Face raised his eyebrows. "You're all heart, Murdock."

"I _am_?" Murdock looked comically dismayed. "Oh no. What happened ta my lungs? An'...an' my kidneys? An' my stomach?"

That got a smile out of Face. "C'mon, give it up. We both know you're completely sane."

Hannibal shot the younger man a sudden sharp look. "What did you say, kid?"

The smile faded off the lieutenant's face and he looked away. "Never mind."

There was a short pause.

"Well, Tawnia can't help us with this one," Hannibal said at the end of it, with a sigh. He'd never liked having auxiliary members of the Team – especially civilian ones – but even he had to admit that having a top reporter on their side had been damn useful. "Alright. I'll stop by the library, see if I can dig anything out of the archives."

"Hannibal, this Chrissy Allen, or Jolene Hanson, or whoever she is, is probably long gone. This is like trying to find a needle in a haystack the size of Connecticut."

The colonel glanced over his shoulder. "You said it yourself, Face. We have two confirmed IDs for this girl and no idea which one is the right one. Two sets of alleged parents looking for her. I don't know about you, but I'm sure curious." _And since you still won't talk to me, kid, I might as well do something useful, _he added in the privacy of his own mind.

* * *

It was sheer bad luck that brought Decker into Hannibal's path on the drive to the library; both men pulled up on opposite sides of a four-way intersection, saw each other at the exact same moment and reacted simultaneously; Decker hit the gas and the siren and barely waited before screeching out into the flow of traffic milliseconds after Hannibal had joined it and headed off to the right.

Spinning the wheel, Hannibal accelerated the wrong way down a one-way street, mind racing. He wasn't worried about meeting anything coming the other way – the blaring sirens of the MP cars behind him would clear out the street nicely – but he was worried about shaking them. Speed for speed, there wasn't much in it; the MP engines were specially tuned, but so was the van' escape plans were a whole lot easier to come up with when you didn't have to concentrate on navigating an unfamiliar city at close on seventy.

_Note to self: have BA install remote control AR-15s in the sunroof. _Hannibal skidded around the corner into the high street on two wheels, jumped a red light and tore around the next intersection. He misjudged the sharpness of the turn and ended up fishtailing across somebody's newly finished cement driveway and plowing through it, sending globs of wet cement flying in all directions, although he did find time to spare a silent apology for the poor guy who had probably spent hours smoothing it out to a loving finish.

Any other MP would probably have radioed for backup at this point, but Hannibal knew Decker better than that. This had become primeval, hunter chasing after prey, and the colonel wouldn't want to risk sharing his glory with anyone.

_Well, let's see just how fast Decker can go._

He spun the wheel, accelerated around the corner and almost plowed right into a family sedan at the very end of a long queue caused by roadworks, a development neither he nor Decker had foreseen.

_Oh, that is just plain unfair_.

Hannibal watched in the wing mirrors as Decker and Crane emerged from their car and moved up on either side of the van.

_Sloppy, Decker. Really sloppy_. They were still too far back to see him, and so Hannibal slid into the back, waited until he heard them pass and then quietly clicked open the rear door and snuck out toward the MP car.

_The guy even left the motor running._ Hannibal shook his head as he clambered into the MP's car. It was no _fun_ outwitting an idiot.

"_SMITH_!" Decker's yell tailed off a little at the end, as he discovered Hannibal's escape route, then he spun around.

Seated snugly behind the wheel, Hannibal offered him a friendly smile and a wave before throwing Decker's car into reverse and screeching out of there.

Seconds later, the A-Team van followed him out. Decker was not too proud to learn by example.

_Great. Now we have the A-Team chasing the MPs. Where the hell did Decker learn to hotwire a car, anyway?_

He'd have to do something about that. Glancing around for a weapon he could fire while still driving the car, Hannibal's gaze fell on the radio unit and a slow grin spread across his face. He was feeling more like himself than he had since Sacheton.

_Oh, BA is going to kill me for this..._

Hannibal picked up the radio and deepened his voice. "Attention all units. This is Colonel Decker. Smith and his A-Team have ambushed me; request immediate backup. Repeat, request _immediate backup_! Stop that van at all costs! Do whatever it takes, just run it off the road! Over."

Chuckling, he replaced the radio unit and turned the siren on. He wouldn't trade the van for anything (and not just because BA would rip out his lungs if he so much as suggested it) but still...traveling in an MP car did have its perks. Not many drivers ever got out of the way this quickly when he was in the van.

It took just ten minutes for half a dozen MP cars to converge on their location, and, with the advantage of surprise on their sides, about as many seconds to run the A-Team van off the road. By the time a fuming Decker had emerged from the van and explained the situation at the top of his lungs, Hannibal and the stolen MP car were out of Chicago and hurtling along at just over ninety miles per hour, siren blaring. With a bit of luck, Decker would remember the road he'd seen Hannibal drive down and assume he and the Team were headed out of the city.

A little exploratory driving combined with a newly acquired road map brought Hannibal back into Chicago, and a late return to the apartment got his tires blown out by BA, who'd either arrived a few minutes earlier or, more likely, set himself up as the first line of defence.

Winding down his window, but not quite daring to stick his head out of it, Hannibal yelled, "_BA_!"

"_Hannibal_?" BA stood up from his cover point behind his rental car. "What you doin' in there? Where's my van?"

"Didn't _anybody_ ever tell you to check your target before opening fire?" Hannibal demanded.

"Drivin' up in that car like that, I thought you were Decker! Where's my van?"

Hannibal drew himself up. "I didn't hear that, Sergeant."

"I said I THOUGHT YOU WERE DECKER, NOW WHERE'S MY VAN?"

Dignified denials really were wasted on some people, Hannibal thought as he headed back toward their apartment, closely followed by a suspicious BA.

"Where's my van, Hannibal?"

The colonel put on his best officer's voice. "BA, I'm surprised at you! Face is down, we're doing all we can to get him back on his feet again, and are you really telling me that you're more worried about your _van_ than another member of your team?"

BA met his stare without flinching. "Yeah! Because you already told me over the phone that Faceman gonna be okay, but you ain't told me _nothin_' about my van goin' missin'! So where is it?"

Hannibal smiled. BA threatening to punch his teeth down his neck was...well, not _good_, obviously, but at least it was _normal_.

"Well, BA, think of it as...a kind of compliment. You see, there was a little traffic jam in Chicago, and the van got a little boxed in—"

"_Boxed in_? Hannibal, you better not be tellin' me my van got smashed!"

"It didn't get _smashed_, BA," Hannibal answered, with perfect truth. "It was...well, think of it this way. Colonel Decker could have chosen any vehicle to try and outrun an MP car, but no, he decided he wanted—"

"You let _Decker_ take my wheels?"

"Well...it was kinda like a trade."

"You let _Decker_ take my wheels!" One meaty fist snarled itself in Hannibal's jacket, the other drew back to its owner's shoulder. "You better start prayin', Hannibal."

The fist started on its way, but Hannibal got there first, connecting hard with a right hook that knocked BA to the ground and very nearly broke two of his own knuckles into the bargain.

For several seconds, BA lay on the ground, stunned not by the punch so much as the puncher. Apart from being smashed over the head with a two by four whenever the Team needed to fly (which even he grudgingly accepted as a kind of occupational hazard rather than actual assault) he'd never been on the receiving end of Hannibal's fists before.

"Alright." Hannibal was breathing rapidly. "That. Is. _Enough_! I have Face wishing I would just drop out of existence, I have Murdock in one of his completely sane moods and that's enough to derail _anybody_, _we_ have Decker and his goons sniffing around our doorstep and so excuse me if the lives of my men – including you – are more important to me than your damn van!"

The sergeant got to his feet and then turned to Hannibal. "You know, Hannibal, just 'cause you mad at yourself about what happened to Face, it don't give you the right to take it out on everyone else."

"No. But it _does_ give me the right to put the life of someone I care about over a goddamn _vehicle_. Once we have Face back on his feet, then you can pound me into raw hamburger if it makes you feel better, but until then, I do _not_ want to hear another word about that van. Is that clear?"

The only response was a growl, which Hannibal understood to be Baracian for _yes, it's clear and yes, I'll do what you say, but I'd rather push rusty needles into both eyes than give you the satisfaction of hearing me admit it_.

Walking into the apartment, a scowling BA following, Hannibal shut the door behind them and dragged a chair against it.

"BA!" Murdock beamed at the sergeant. "My bud! My _compadre_! My non-conjoined Siamese twin! I saved ya a gingerbread cookie!"

He held it out proudly. It was in the shape of the van, and Murdock had even made an attempt at decorating it to look like the van as well.

BA took it. Despite the pilot's erratic behavior when it came to most other things, Murdock's cooking was safe, and usually very good.

"Thanks, crazy man. Maybe I can force feed it to Hannibal, just in case he forgets what he done."

"We have bigger problems to worry about, BA; Decker knows we're in Chicago. I made sure he saw me heading out of the city, but I don't think that's going to buy us more than a few hours. Perhaps a day, if we're lucky. We have to make plans to get out of here."

Murdock wasn't to be put off that easily. "Whatcha do, Hannibal?"

"Nothing that matters," Hannibal said irritably. Dammit, was _every_ member of his Team going to get in on the Let's-Beat-Up-Hannibal party?

"Sucker lost my van!" BA glared at the gingerbread van he was holding and then bit it in half with a savage expression that said he wished he could do the same thing to Hannibal. "Decker got it."

Murdock's jaw dropped. "Ya lost the _van_? The fifth member of the A-Team an' you let Decker _kidnap_ her? Hannibal, how couldja?"

BA turned the glare on Hannibal. "For once, the crazy fool is makin' some sense!"

"Well, Decker was either going to get me and the van or the van by itself! And we'll get it back. We always do; remember that time I drove it into the ocean? Remember that time _Murdock_ drove it into the ocean?" Hannibal glanced around the kitchen. "Where's Face?"

Murdock shifted his weight, serious again. "Well..."

"Well _what_?"

"He's in his room. Uh. He asked me to say that he wants to see you."

Hannibal felt a sudden lurch in his chest that was half hope, half apprehension. "Did he say what it was about?"

Murdock shrugged. "Kinda. He says he wants ta talk."

That was about the last thing that Hannibal had been expecting when he got back and he stared at the pilot.

"So he's gone from hating my guts to wanting a heart to heart with me in one afternoon?"

Murdock nodded. "Sure has."

Even taking into account Murdock's friendship with Face, this was fast work and Hannibal narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Murdock—"

"He ain't trickin' ya, Hannibal. I mean, I don't know _what_ he wants ta talk to ya about, but at least it's a good sign that he wants ta."

Hannibal considered this for a minute or two, then nodded. "Alright. I'll see what he's got to say for himself. And if _either_ of you fight, argue or even just mildly disagree with each other, you will _both_ be running laps around the entire city until we leave. It's bad enough having Face angry; we don't need any more infighting."

"Wouldn't be no infightin' at _all_ if you hadn't lost my van, sucker!"

"Put it on hold, Sergeant! Both of you, get over to opposite windows and keep an eye out for Decker and his goons!" Without waiting to see if his order was obeyed, Hannibal knocked on Face's door and, when there was no answer, pushed it open.

Face was asleep on his bed, a paperback novel lying on the floor where it had fallen from his hand. Picking it up, Hannibal noticed the title and smiled slightly. That had to be Murdock's work. The pilot went through fixations like an alcoholic through cheap firewater, the current one being Inspector Morse novels. Neither Face nor Hannibal were big fans of detective stories – mostly because both men tended to work out the ending before they were halfway through – but the colonel supposed that Face had decided it was better than nothing.

Should he wake him? Hannibal stared down at his lieutenant for a minute or two, then dismissed the idea. Face didn't seem to be having too bad a dream just then; his expression was tense, but there was none of the panicked thrashing around that accompanied his usual nightmares.

_Exactly. Poor kid needs some rest. I'll just stay here until he wakes up._

Placing the book on the nightstand, Hannibal sat down opposite Face, and waited.

* * *

**Next up...dark secrets. In the meantime, hope you liked this and if you read, please review!**


	7. Dark Memories

**wotumba1: **Well, it's continued ;-) And you'll find out about the girl in a couple chapters, I promise ;-)

* * *

It took about forty minutes before Face jerked awake, and by that time Hannibal was seriously thinking of leaving the lieutenant to his rest.

"Face?" Taking in the younger man's wild eyes, Hannibal added, "Are you back with us?"

Face tensed, shifting away from him. "Hannibal? What are you doing in here?"

"Murdock told me you wanted to talk to me." Seeing Face edge back a little further, Hannibal added, "Do you still want to?"

"I _want_ a drink."

Hannibal filled a glass from the jug of water by the bed and handed it to him. Face eyed it a little warily, then took it, sitting up and leaning back against the wall.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." Hannibal watched as Face gulped at the water. "Face, if you've changed your mind about talking, just tell me."

The lieutenant rolled his eyes. "You always want to second-guess people, don't you?"

"I _want_ to help you, kid, and I can't do that if _you_ still want me to go stick my head in the pantry." Hannibal wondered whether he ought to tell Face that he'd also heard the lieutenant calling out in his sleep for his mother, then decided against it. He already knew that part of Face's history: he and his mother had lived in a cramped trailer a few blocks away from school, just close enough for the lieutenant to toddle there and back every day. One day when the five-year-old Face came back, he'd found not just his mother, but his entire home gone.

Face swallowed the last of the water, swung both legs over the side of the bed and stood up, swaying.

"Kid—"

"I'm alright," Face told him, although he didn't protest when Hannibal caught hold of his arm and stopped him falling.

"You lost a lot of blood, Face. None of us have the same blood type and there were too many MPs in the area to get you to hospital for a transfusion. To be honest, I'm still amazed you're alive at all."

"I _said_ I'm alright!"

Hannibal sighed. "Well, if you're well enough to argue with me, I guess you're on the road to recovery. C'mon. Time for a change of scenery."

Face stiffened but allowed Hannibal to help him over to the armchair by the window and sit him down in it.

_Now what the hell do I say to him? He's convinced I'm going to start up the inquisition again._

Immediately the thought came back, _So don't. Find something else to talk about. Something he can't feel threatened by_.

The colonel settled down on the bed and stared at nothing for a few minutes, then chuckled.

"What?" Face's voice was a little wary, but not suspicious; even he didn't believe Hannibal would actually _laugh_ at his situation.

"I was just thinking. You remember when we got the check from our first job? Fifteen grand each. You spent thirteen of it on your first car."

He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a grin flicker over the lieutenant's face. "Yeah. I could drive well enough but I needed a ride to pick it up, so I had to get you to come with me."

"And you told everyone I was your driving instructor."

"And _you_ made me drive around in circles for three hours!"

Hannibal raised his eyebrows. "What'd you expect? As a responsible driving instructor, it was my duty to make sure you were safe to be let loose on the roads. I was just trying not to blow your cover, that's all."

"Sure Hannibal, because _everybody_ drives around the block five hundred times. We were starting to draw a crowd by the end of it. I should've rented advertising space on the side. And you never did let me drive your car."

The colonel folded his arms. "I never had to, kid. You stole it that night, remember?"

"Now Hannibal, I took very good care of it, and I brought it back! With, I might add, a full tank of gas."

"And only one headlight."

"That wasn't my fault! That thing just leapt out into the road, right in front of me! It was a very nasty experience, Hannibal. I was traumatised for _weeks_!"

Hannibal took hold of Face's shoulders, looked into his eyes and spoke very gently.

"Face, _that thing_ was a traffic light."

"Ah, Hannibal. Minor detail. Anyway, if we're pointing fingers, what about the time you threw me into that door a couple weeks later?"

Hannibal glanced at the lieutenant, but there was no accusation in Face's expression and so he relaxed again.

"You took off for five days without calling or even letting me know where you were and that you were okay. I was out of my mind with worry! Just like I've been these past six weeks." The words were out of Hannibal's mouth before he could stop them. Face froze, then looked away.

"Yeah. Well."

"If it's any consolation, kid, I'm not planning to ground you again."

This time Face really did grin, albeit briefly. He'd been staying in Hannibal's apartment at the time, and the colonel had confined him to barracks for two weeks following his little excursion. Face's reaction on receiving this news had been similar to that of a teenager; Hannibal could still hear the note of indignant astonishment as though it were yesterday.

_"You...no way, Hannibal! You're GROUNDING me?"_

They sat there in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, then Hannibal spoke again. "Did you really want to die?"

Face stared out the window with dull eyes. "I don't know. Maybe."

More silence, then the colonel said very carefully, "Do you want to tell me why?"

"Does it matter?"

"Well, I'd quite like to stop it happening again, Face, so...yeah."

Another silence, then Face said in a monotone, "It's never going to end, is it?"

Hannibal was silent. Experience had taught him that the lieutenant would answer his own questions soon enough.

"Everywhere we go, the military are after us. Even while we're holed up here, they're still hunting us. I used to want a nice little house, maybe a dog. And kids. I always wanted kids. I can't even have that because I might be running for my life from Decker and his goons at any minute. It's been like this for ten years, for something we didn't even do, and they are never, _ever_ going to leave us alone. And...I'm tired, Hannibal. I'm so, so tired. Sometimes I wish the military would just catch us and lock us up. I mean, sure we'd be in jail, but at least I could wake up every morning without being terrified that this would be the day they catch us. And then whenever it comes to it, I just want to stay out and stay free."

The colonel was quiet for a while longer, then said, "Do you want to leave the Team? Try and disappear on your own?"

"No." Face's voice was still dull, but there was no doubting the sincerity there. "It's like you said, Hannibal; all we've got is each other. Although sometimes I don't think I've even got that."

"What's that supposed to mean?" There was no anger or defensiveness in Hannibal's tone; he was genuinely baffled.

"It means you do your best to accommodate everyone in the Team except me. I find a place to stay or a restaurant I like, then you guys come hurtling in and screw it up somehow. You get me kicked out of my home or at least make things so uncomfortable for me there that I have to leave before I blow my cover completely and I'm stuck sleeping in the 'Vette for a few nights until I can put another scam together. Someone asks BA for help and you drag the Team into it. An old friend asks you for help and you drag the Team into it. An old friend asks _me_ for help and you won't even consider going unless I pay you, and I have to fight to get you to agree to that. And the worst thing about it all, Hannibal, is that you think it's _funny_. Everything I do, everything I try and work towards is just a big joke to you."

Hannibal was silent for a long time, thinking this through.

"Why didn't you mention any of this before?" he said at last.

Face shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I thought you'd get angry and kick me off the Team."

"C'mon Face." Hannibal raised his eyebrows, grinning. "Now that _is_ a joke."

The lieutenant glanced at him and managed a wan smile. "Yeah. I guess it is." There was a telling silence, then Face looked away again. "So...what happens now?"

The colonel kept his voice as casual as he could as he answered, "Well, that's up to you, Face. The Team hasn't been the same since you left."

The lieutenant looked away with a hollow laugh. "I don't deserve a place on the Team."

Hannibal shrugged. "Well, if that's the way you feel about it, kid, then that's the way you feel about it. But I'm telling you you're wrong, and that you got that place if you want it." He hesitated, serious again. "Face—"

"No, Hannibal...don't say it. Please."

"Kid, believe me, the last thing I wanna do is drive you away again. But you need to talk to someone about what happened to you. I was right about that, Face. I was just wrong in trying to force you to pick me."

The lieutenant lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, hands folded over his stomach. "I don't remember what happened to me."

"You really don't remember, or you want me to butt out?"

"I don't remember. At least...not all of it. I didn't...I was five years old. I'd walked home from school to find my mom had just upped and left and so I started walking. I don't know, maybe I had some crazy idea about following her on foot. I was picked up by a guy in a car. I was cold. I was hungry. And nobody had ever thought to tell me not to talk to strangers. It was getting dark and he said he had some food and somewhere to stay. So I got in the car. I just...went right along and got in the car.

"There was another guy. Gave me an injection as soon as I got in. Next thing I know I'm in a room with another kid. He's dead."

"_What_?" Hannibal hadn't meant to interrupt, hadn't meant to say anything at all, but this was too much of a curve ball even for him.

"Strangled. Been dead for a while. You ever seen a strangled body?" Face smiled coldly. "It's pretty colorful."

Hannibal had, but he kept quiet.

"I was lying on a mattress. Damp. Pretty hard. He was sprawled on the other. I tried touching him. He was so cold..." Face continued staring at the ceiling, lost in his own mind. "And stiff. And...the color. You know when a person dies, how the blood settles because it's not being pumped round by the heart? How it just kinda _sinks_, and the person ends up white on top, darker underneath?"

Hannibal, who had seen more bodies than he cared to remember, nodded. "Yeah. They always seem to miss that little detail on TV."

"Uh huh. I had no idea. I was _five_," Face repeated, as though Hannibal had sneered at his ignorance. "I just...I dunno. I knew about death, but I'd never heard of rigor mortis. And I _really_ didn't know about the blood settling after someone dies."

Hannibal had met very few people outside the armed forces or medical profession who did, but kept that to himself. Instead he said, "Do you know why he was still there? If he was dead?"

Face shook his head. "No. I think someone just...went a little too far and they hadn't gotten around to getting rid of the body yet."

"Jesus." Hannibal stared at the lieutenant, mouth dry. He'd thought it might be grim, knowing as much as he already did, but this was darker than he could have ever expected.

Face glanced at him. "You still wanna hear this?"

Hannibal hesitated, then said candidly, "No, but I'm still ready to listen."

"Well...aw, heck, Hannibal, I was a really cute kid, you know? Maybe kinda scruffy – personal hygiene was kind of an optional extra at home – but in a way that made me cuter. I had the lovable scamp thing down to a fine art. Young, blonde...just what the customers were after."

"Did they..." Hannibal hesitated, trying to find a way of phrasing his next question that wouldn't make him sound like the world's biggest vulture. "How many, uh..."

"Couple during the day. Few more at night. Like I said, I was popular. I didn't exactly keep a running total, but if I had to make a guess, I'd say the most I ever got was six in a twenty four hour timeframe. Usually it was around four though."

"Around?"

"I didn't exactly keep a running tally, Hannibal! And there were no windows, no clocks, nothing. The only thing I had to keep track of time was food, and that came three times a day. It wasn't much but it was better than nothing. And my mother wasn't big on feeding me, so it wasn't as if I knew any different."

"You have any idea how long you were there?"

"Two weeks. Cops raided the place. I don't really remember what happened next, to tell you the truth, it gets kinda blurred. I must've spent a few days being questioned, although like I said, it's not too clear in my mind. Next really clear thing I remember is being dumped at the orphanage where I grew up. As far as those two weeks went...I just blacked them out. Life in that orphanage was tough enough without having something like that lurking in my mind. And kids have no real idea of time, you know? It wasn't hard to convince myself that I'd been running after my mother when the cops picked me up."

"Yeah." Hannibal was quiet for a moment. It was Face who was the mathematical genius – he could do equations in his head that Hannibal struggled with on paper – but the colonel was at least capable of basic mental arithmetic.

_Two weeks. _It didn't sound like much, and it wasn't, not when you considered that some kids _never _got out. _Four times a day_. _Sometimes less, often more_.

Even if you took four times every twenty four hours for two weeks as a ballpark figure, it still didn't sound like much until you added it up and realised that prior to his arrival at the orphanage, the five year old Face had been raped over fifty times.

No wonder he'd suppressed the memories. At that moment Hannibal seriously wished he could do the same thing.

"Face, if I'd known—"

Face snorted. "You'd have what? Felt sorry for me? Gone easy on me? I didn't want that. Besides, how could you know when _I_ didn't?"

"You never dreamed about it? Back in the orphanage, I mean?"

The lieutenant frowned, not angrily but in thought.

"If I did, I don't remember. I mean, sure I had some pretty bad nights, but my mom had just abandoned me. I never thought any more of it besides that, and neither did anyone else."

"Didn't the orphanage pick up on it?" Even as Hannibal said it, he knew the answer. Face had received food, clothing and shelter from the orphanage, but nothing in the way of emotional or mental support; the few adults he risked getting close to had a habit of leaving or being transferred.

Face shook his head. "Not really. I mean, I never liked being around men, but since ninety nine point nine percent of the staff were female, they just thought I was shy. _I_ thought I was shy."

"But the police would have mentioned what happened."

A shrug. "Maybe. I never saw my own records from the orphanage. Maybe they did say something about it, although since they never made any charges stick against those people, I'm not sure. Maybe they figured I deserved a clean start. It's hard enough getting adopted and a lot of wannabe parents don't want damaged goods. At least, not _that_ damaged. 'Course, it didn't matter in my case, but still..."

Hannibal nodded. "Yeah." He paused, then said, "Well, as far as your position on the Team goes, Face, this doesn't change a thing. You're still one of us, no matter what happened to you before."

Face looked away. "I didn't want you to know that about me, Hannibal. Any of you."

"Yeah. I can understand that, kid. And I won't breathe a word of this to BA or Murdock." The colonel didn't bother adding that he was sure Murdock had figured most of it out for himself. Despite what he'd often told recruits, there _was_ such a thing as too much information.

"So at the risk of repeating myself, Hannibal, what now? We can't stay here forever."

Hannibal raised his eyebrows. "No, we can't. For one thing, we still have a job to do."

"A job?" Face's heart dropped. It's one thing to storm off and tell the world (or at least, yourself) that everyone can go on without you, that they can just pretend you never existed. It's quite another to have them take you at your word.

"Sacheton? Chrissy Allen, or Jolene Hanson, or whoever she is? You remember that?"

"Vaguely." Seeing Hannibal's look, Face added, "I'm serious. I had quite a few things on my mind."

"Do you remember trying to break into Markham's place time after time?"

The lieutenant frowned. "Kinda. I mean, yeah, I remember doing it, but the details are kinda fuzzy."

"Damn." Hannibal had been banking on Face's description of Markham's mansion helping him and the rest of the Team sneak inside and turn the entire place upside-down.

"Sorry."

"It's not your fault, kid. It would just have made things a little quicker, that's all."

Face shook his head. "It's pretty much a blank. If I think of anything, I'll tell you."

A slight smile, the first real one in what felt like years, flickered over Hannibal's face. "Well, that's all I wanted to hear, Lieutenant. Now get back to bed and get some rest. We're leaving first thing in the morning."

* * *

Hannibal was halfway back to the kitchen when the rage hit him.

It wasn't just anger for a friend or someone under his command, it was a sudden, blinding explosion of paternal fury. It didn't matter that it had happened fifteen years before Hannibal had first met Face; all that mattered was that a bunch of sick, twisted bastards had viciously and repeatedly brutalised someone Hannibal had come to regard as a son. The urge to find the ones responsible, to get his hands around their throats, to rip, tear, _kill_...Hannibal felt a shiver run down his spine.

Actually, now that he thought about it, there were plenty of people in Face's life that Hannibal would like a quiet word with, starting with the damn foster parents the kid had had for three months, and finishing with the mother who had abandoned him to that hell in the first place. He wondered if she was still alive and if so, whether she regretted what she'd done. Did she ever stop to think about the little boy she'd driven off and left?

_She could at least have dumped him at the orphanage, given him that much._

"Colonel?" Murdock's voice was strained, although this fact flew over Hannibal's head in light of another, stranger one: while he'd been with Face, the pilot's hair had somehow changed from brown to a greasy black and a chunk of it had been brushed forward to cover up his receding hairline. The hairstyle suited him – it made him look his age, instead of about fifteen years older – but Hannibal was less sure about the color.

"Do I want to know?" He'd thought that Murdock could have stayed sane a _little_ longer, in view of their current situation.

"Boot polish, Colonel."

"There's a car parked outside, Hannibal." BA's low voice unnerved Hannibal; the fact that the sergeant hadn't launched into a tirade against Murdock told the colonel how serious things were. "Just been sittin' there with its lights on for about an hour."

Hannibal grew very still. "Decker?"

"Yeah, could be." There wasn't a mirror in the kitchen, so Murdock put the finishing touches to his boot-blacked hair in the microwave door and added a little to his eyebrows for good measure. "Maybe he's jus' waitin' for one of us ta go out so's he can nab us."

"That's not Decker's style."

BA shrugged. "Could be that's the whole point. Man's figured out his style don't work. Maybe he decided to change it."

"No, he'd have to be flexible for that. Where does the boot polish fit into all this, anyway?"

Murdock grinned. "Well, since I ain't wanted by the MPs, they can't do anythin' ta me if I decide ta take a little walk outside for some groceries. But jus' 'cause they don't _want_ me, it don't mean they can't _recognise _me an' with Faceman like he is...well, we can't take that chance. So I figure a little disguise, a new accent, a pair a glasses—" Murdock donned a fake set of owl glasses with tape around one of the legs— "an' I'm all set ta do a quick recon an' report back. How do I look?"

Hannibal scrutinized Murdock closely. "Not bad. You'll have to leave your jacket here, though; they'll recognise that even if they don't recognise you."

"Take off my jacket?" Murdock squirmed for a few minutes. "Aw, Colonel...you know I can't do that."

Hannibal raised his eyebrows. "Why not?"

It was something he'd often wondered, why Murdock insisted on wearing that heavy pilot's jacket over a t-shirt (and very often a shirt as well), even in the heat of LA. He was expecting something along the lines of _the fairies don't want me to_ or _this jacket gives me superhuman strength_, but instead Murdock said, "'Cause a these."

The colonel looked down to where Murdock had pulled back his jacket sleeve and the sleeve of the shirt underneath, revealing the variety of scars he'd picked up in the POW camp back in Nam.

"I see." Quieter now. Even BA didn't seem able to find a tough remark for Murdock. Both he and Hannibal had become so used to the pilot's crazy excuses that it hadn't occurred to either of them Murdock might have a genuine reason to want to keep his jacket on. "Well, at least take mine instead. Like you said, we can't take a chance on being recognised."

Murdock hesitated, then took the colonel's offered jacket and shrugged his own off. Hannibal's didn't quite fit him – the older man was a few inches shorter and considerably broader across the shoulders – but it would probably do.

BA waited until Murdock had sauntered out the door before saying, "How's Face?"

Hannibal felt the bile rise up in his throat again at the thought of his and Face's most recent conversation, but all he said was, "He's fine. Or...he will be. BA, how soon can you pack?"

"Hannibal, I ain't even had time to _un_pack yet!"

"Good; we're leaving in the morning. Go on through and get some rest. I'll keep an eye out."

"Where we goin'?"

"Back to Sacheton. I want to find out who and/or where that girl is, and I think Markham knows a lot more than he's telling us."

BA frowned. "What d'you mean, Hannibal? We know who she is."

Hannibal glanced at him, then remembered that BA hadn't been present when he'd brought back the other Missing flier and so he passed it to the sergeant.

BA read it through, then shook his head. "Man, Hannibal. This is messed up."

Everything had been messed up, in Hannibal's opinion, from the moment that damn song had started playing on the radio and caused Face to freak out, but he didn't say so.

"How's Face gonna take it?"

"Fine. I already spoke to him about it. We can take that rental you got, since you blew out the tires on _my_ car—"

"I wouldn't had to do that if _you_ hadn't lost the van!"

"—and as soon as Murdock gets back with those groceries and _you_ get some sleep, I'll see about making some sandwiches for the road." Hannibal didn't add that sleep was impossible for him, that he was still too furious to even consider it.

"Hannibal—"

"_Goddammit Sergeant, I gave you an order! Now move!_"

BA stared at him for a few minutes, then moved. Unlike most people the Team dealt with, he knew when he was pushing his luck.

* * *

**Okay, so next up...the mystery of the missing girl is (finally!) solved! In the meantime, hope you enjoyed this and if you read, please review!**


	8. Making Tracks

**Chapter 8: Making Tracks**

* * *

**AN: Sorry for the major delay; first the graphics card on my main laptop got fried (still not sure how; it's only a few months old) and it's still in the shop* and the adaptor on my _other_ laptop is screwed, which means I have to hold the power supply in with one hand and type with the other. Anyway, it's - finally! - an update!**

***Actually, no it's not. Between writing this note and posting the chapter, I got a call from the Tech Guys telling me it was fixed, back at the store and ready to be collected. Since it's a forty minute drive and they close in fifteen, however, it can stay there for tonight. Tomorrow there shall be much gaming :D**

* * *

**lunaz:** That...is a brilliant idea. I wish I'd thought of it...

* * *

It was another half hour before Murdock returned, shedding Hannibal's jacket as soon as he was through the front door and draping it over a chair.

"Anything?" Hannibal didn't look up from his sandwich making as he asked the question.

"Nothin'. Jus' some guy left his lights on."

The colonel paused mid-butter and turned to stare at Murdock. "So why did it take you a whole half hour to go down some stairs, find that out and come back up again?"

"I picked a magazine up for the Faceman. Gotcha some cigars too." Murdock nodded to Hannibal's jacket, where a cellophane wrapped pack was poking out of the top pocket, then turned his attention to the other man's provisions and frowned. "Uh, Colonel? I know the big guy's comin' along with us, but how many sandwiches're you expectin' us ta get through tomorrow?"

Hannibal stared at Murdock blankly for a few minutes, then looked down to where four loaves' worth of sandwiches were stacked neatly to one side, out of the way.

"Right. Yeah. Uh." He frowned. It was getting hard to concentrate, like someone had wrapped his brain in cotton wool. He'd started making sandwiches to take on the trip back with them tomorrow (or should that be later today now?) and he'd kept making them because...well, because making them gave him something nice and mundane to focus on, stopped him dwelling on what Face had told him. "Well, you saw how skinny Face is. He needs feeding up."

Murdock didn't answer this, just looked at him.

"Besides, there's no knowing where Decker is. We may have to hole up somewhere." Hannibal dropped the butter knife in the sink and turned his back on it; outside of the Army, the colonel was firmly of the opinion that housework was something that only happened to other people.

"Gotta get the van back first," Murdock reminded him.

"_Damn_ the van, Captain!"

"Well, _you_ can go an' tell BA that if ya want."

"The van is probably impounded in a military base right now. They'll be waiting for us to walk in and take it."

Murdock quirked an eyebrow. "Ya think? Seems ta me like they'd never reckon we'd be dumb enough to do it."

Hannibal glanced up at Murdock. There was a barely concealed gleam in the pilot's eyes, a hidden challenge.

"You may have something there, Murdock."

"I sure do. It's somethin' big an' purple that followed me home, an' I'm gonna call him Murdock Junior an' let him live under my bed. Can I keep him, huh Hannibal? Can-I-can-I-can-I?"

Hannibal sighed, although inwardly glad of the pilot's distraction. "Murdock..."

Murdock gave a huge sigh. "Alright." Turning, he made shooing motions at the air. "Go on, boy. Go on an' play with Billy. I'll come by an' check on ya later."

Lowering his voice, Hannibal said, "You don't have to keep up the act around me, Murdock."

"Ain't no act, Colonel." Murdock picked up the topmost sandwich and started munching.

"This is me you're talking to, Captain. Maybe you can still fool Face and BA, but I know you better."

"Sure, Colonel." Murdock finished his sandwich and wandered over to the fridge. "D'ya think Faceman'll mind if I have one a his Dr Peppers?"

"Help yourself and don't change the subject."

The pilot turned to fix Hannibal with a can in his hand and an uncharacteristically serious look on his face. "I ain't changin' the subject, Hannibal. I'm closin' it. An' don't you even think of reopenin' it again, not now. Not with Faceman how he is."

"This has nothing to do with Face, Murdock."

"I dunno about that, Colonel. Seems ta me like you're feelin' guilty for not bein' there in time ta save him, so you decided ta try an' save me by gettin' me out the VA instead."

Hannibal opened his mouth to refute this, saw the likely outcome of the conversation and shut it again.

"You can't expect me to believe you're happy living there," he said instead.

Murdock considered this for a few moments. "No, but I ain't exactly _unhappy_ either. Besides, you and I both know I can get declared sane an' walk outta there anytime I want."

"We did have a deal to that effect, Murdock."

"Uh huh. An' that deal still stands, Colonel. But the other parta it says that Faceman or BA gotta figure things out for themselves, without any help from you or me. The big guy...well, he kinda sees the world how it appears, ya know? All the time I act crazy, he believes I _am_ crazy. Faceman...well, if he was gonna figure it out, he woulda done by now." Murdock thought about it, then decided to leave out the conversation he and Face had had about the pilot's sanity, or lack thereof. No point complicating things.

He opened the soda and swigged from it, using it as an excuse to avoid meeting Hannibal's eyes. It wasn't the first time they'd had this debate – it was a common exchange between the two men whenever Face and BA weren't around to hear – but right now Murdock was too drained to put much energy into it.

"Murdock—"

"Nope. I ain't listenin', Hannibal." Another swig, this one depleting the can by almost a third, then Murdock put it down on the side and started rummaging in the cupboards for something to eat. "Do we got any more peanuts?"

"What?" Momentarily wrong-footed, Hannibal shook his head. "No, you ate the last bag before you left. Murdock, if you think—"

"Aw, _shoot_!" Murdock interrupted, shutting the cupboard. "Y'know, I coulda sworn I bought an extra packet. You sure you ain't been sneakin' 'em out ta Faceman behind my back, Colonel? Well, guess it don't matter," he continued before Hannibal could answer, "we can get him some more before we go home. An' speakin' a Faceman, I'm gonna go check on him; can't have my bestest buddy sufferin' from nightmares, now can I? Goodnight!"

He'd slipped into Face's room and shut the door before Hannibal could answer, and the colonel grimaced. That was a textbook Murdockian evasion; rattle off a mixture of concerns, questions and borderline accusations that lasted however long it took to reach the door, and by the time the other person had finished picking through what the pilot had said, Murdock was already out of reach. Years of dealing with shrinks coupled with his own quick intellect meant that trying to pin the pilot down in a discussion was like trying to grasp water.

Hannibal sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigar, mind turning.

_Okay. There's got to be some way to get that van back and get out of here. Think..._

* * *

"So how are we going to get back to Sacheton from Illinois?" Face wanted to know around yawns. Although Hannibal had allowed the rest of the A-Team to lie in until nine am (which, by A-Team and Army standards, was practically lunchtime) the lieutenant hadn't slept particularly well.

Hannibal glanced at him, then at the others. "Well, if we could find a helicopter—"

"I ain't flyin', Hannibal!"

There was a stunned pause, then Murdock glanced around at the others and added with a grin, "I just wanted to beat the big guy to it, y'know, just this one time."

"For once, the crazy fool's talkin' sense, Hannibal. I ain't flyin'. _You_ wanna fly, that's your business. I ain't leavin' the ground. Especially not after you lost my van!"

"Sergeant, we will _get the van back_." Hannibal took a deep breath that seemed to go on for some time. "Now. Decker will probably have impounded it in the nearest Army base to use as bait for us. So all we have to do is get inside, get the van and get out again."

Face raised his eyebrows. "Gee, Hannibal, you make that sound so simple."

Hannibal's smile was just a little too innocent to trust. "Well, I admit that some parts of the plan are still somewhat vague, but I'll have thought of something when the time comes. Now, do we have any good disguises?"

BA's coffee cup cracked down on the table with a little more force than usual.

"We _had_ plenty've good disguises, Hannibal, in the back of my van!"

Hannibal considered this. "Well, Decker knows we're somewhere in this city. He'll be expecting us to make a try for the van or to get out of Chicago and back to LA. I guess he'll have people on all the Army Surplus stores." He paused for a few seconds, then a slow grin appeared on his face. "Murdock, while you were wandering around buying treats for everyone, did you happen to notice any costume shops?"

"_Costume shops_?" BA's voice shot up. "That ain't never gonna work!"

"Sure it is, BA. We'll be in an MP car, I'll wind the window down a little and salute and we'll be waved right on in."

Face raised his eyebrows. "And you don't think Decker's gonna be waiting for us? You don't think that he knows what we look like by now? Even in a phony uniform?"

Hannibal's grin broadened. "Which means that he'll be expecting us and the guard will have orders to let us come right on in. It'll be a piece of cake."

Murdock groaned. "Aw, _Hannibal_! Whenever you say that, my nose gets all scared an' tingly."

"Yeah." Next to the captain, Face shifted his weight. "So does mine."

"Well, tell your noses to hold all tingling until after the operation, gentlemen." Hannibal lit up a cigar and inhaled. "Because the A-Team is back in business."

* * *

Private Isaacs was bored.

Supremely bored, in fact. Not many visitors came to this fort, and since he was responsible for manning the entrance, this meant there was nothing for him to do except stand there and count the trees (forty two) the branches on the trees (six hundred and thirty three) and the leaves on those same branches (so far he was up to five hundred and nine, but it was late fall and every time a gust of wind blew, it took half the leaves with it and he had to start all over).

With all that in mind, he was quite pleased to see an MP car approach the entrance and screech to a halt a few inches away from the barriers. Abandoning his fourth attempt at counting leaves, Isaacs approached the rear window just as it was rolled down to reveal two distinguished looking officers.

"May I help you, sirs?"

The older of the officers glanced at him. "Colonel James DeVere. Sent here direct from Fort Bragg to take the A-Team's van into custody there."

Isaacs swallowed, suddenly starting to wish he was back counting leaves. Telling a superior officer he couldn't have what he wanted was a little like telling a two-year-old the same thing; a few took it with good grace, but most did their very best to unleash hell upon you.

"Uh...sir? Sorry, sir, but Colonel Decker's orders were very specific: nobody but him takes that van anywhere."

"If those are Colonel Decker's orders, soldier, then get Colonel Decker down here and let me talk to him!"

Isaacs didn't answer this immediately owing to the fact that a slight disagreement had sprung up between the colonel and the lieutenant sitting next to him, who appeared to be trying to strangle his superior officer.

"Uh. Sirs?"

The colonel managed to push his lieutenant off him and turned to spear Isaacs with a look. "Colonel Decker, Private! On the double!"

"Yes sir." Isaacs threw a hasty salute, then turned and jogged back to the sentry box and picked up the phone.

It took him a few minutes to get through to Colonel Decker himself, and when he did, he was informed in curt tones by the officer that he didn't _care_ how many jumped-up bigwigs Isaacs had sitting out there, nor did he care what they wanted; he had a lot of work to do already without babysitting new recruits or rolling out the welcome wagon for a bunch of goddamn paper pushers so go ahead and let them in already!

Isaacs opened his mouth to protest this, or at least offer a description of the goddamn paper pushers in question, but Decker slammed the phone down before he could get the words out.

Well, he had his authorization, if you wanted to call it that and so he raised the barrier with a snappy salute.

The driver floored the gas, the car rocketed into the fort and Isaacs returned to counting leaves with the satisfaction of a job well done.

Ten minutes later, he raised the barrier again to let the A-Team van out, presumably on its way to Fort Bragg.

Five minutes later, he had a sergeant screaming in his ear and it was only at this point that it began to dawn on him that he might have screwed up.

* * *

"They_ WHAT_?"

Decker couldn't remember the last time he'd been so furious. To lose the A-Team in a high-speed pursuit was understandable. To be outwitted by one of Hannibal Smith's complicated plans was forgivable. But to have them drive into a fort, take their own impounded vehicle and drive on out again without anyone so much as raising the alarm..._that_ was just embarrassing.

"They said they'd been sent direct from Fort Bragg to collect the van, sir." Isaacs was squirming on the spot and uncomfortably aware that doing so wasn't going to impress his commanding officer.

"Why the _hell_ would they come to collect the van when we already had it here, Private?"

Isaacs opened his mouth, shut it again and then, when it became apparent Decker wasn't going to answer his own question, said, "I don't know, sir."

"I don't know, sir?" Decker could be a cruelly accurate mimic when the fancy took him. "I don't know?" Reverting to his normal voice, he snarled at the young man, "Well, what the hell _do_ you know?"

The worm began to turn at this point and Isaacs came to immaculate attention before saying, "I know that if you'd come down to investigate when I called you, _sir_, you'd have found out about the A-Team for yourself and probably have them behind bars right now!"

Outside Decker's office, Crane squeezed his eyes shut in dread. You did not argue with Decker. You didn't argue with any superior officer in the Army, come to that, but you _especially_ did not argue with Decker.

"Are you suggesting that this is _my_ fault?"

"I called you, Colonel, and told you there were three officers who wanted access to the fort and did you want to come on down and check them out. You told me to go ahead and let them in. I was just following your orders!"

God, he really was on a death wish. Crane choked down a groan. This meant Decker was going to be in the mother of all pissed off moods for the rest of the week, and _that_ meant that Crane himself would bear the brunt of it.

"So it _is_ my fault."

_God, please let him say no_, Crane prayed. The last time Decker had been this angry was after Smith had locked them in that little room overlooking the cinema. Not only had it taken them four hours to get out, but they'd had to suffer ninety minutes of Smith and Peck (who had been a surprisingly wooden actor considering his talent as a con artist) in _Gatorzilla_ or _Gatorella_ or some such third rate B-movie.

"I'm suggesting it's not mine."

Crane pivoted smartly on one foot and rapped on Decker's door.

The answer that came from inside would have shocked a drill sergeant, but Crane knew Decker too well to be deterred; instead he just pushed open the door and entered.

"Sir, a call just came in. There's been a confirmed sighting of the A-Team heading west."

Decker froze mid-explosion. "That was fast."

It was fast. It was also untrue, and Crane prayed that his colonel would be too eager to catch Smith and the others to realize this. Anyway, the A-Team were based in California, California was to the west of Illinois...it was a safe enough assumption that they'd be going back there.

_Besides, ninety nine percent of the calls we get turn out to be false alarms, especially the ones about Baracus_.

Crane had often puzzled over that one. Smith, yes; Peck, yes (most of the callers who supposedly saw Peck tended to be female) but surely there couldn't be too many black guys with Mohawks and an entire jewelry store hanging off them walking about?

"I have the cars standing by, sir."

Eagerness won and Decker turned away from Isaacs. "Good work, Captain. Let's go."

* * *

"Well," Face said as he leaned back in his customary seat in the van, "that was easy."

He was right. In fact, getting the van back had been so easy that Hannibal was almost insulted. What was the _point_ of devising a big, complicated plan to get the A-Team van if the person guarding it just handed over the keys and saluted as you drove away? Surely Decker had posted their descriptions to everyone on the base? Hannibal refused to believe that the other colonel really _had_ sent for someone from Fort Bragg to get the van; that would be just too big a coincidence. Granted he and the rest of the A-Team did have a strange tendency to hit the long shots, but still...

"Pull over, BA," he said suddenly. "I want to check for trackers."

BA obliged. There hadn't been any sign of pursuit; it was probably safe to pause for a while.

A thorough search of the van revealed nothing out of the ordinary, other than the fact that their entire armory had been stripped.

"He didn't even bother to _bug_ it?" Face stared at Hannibal. "Why not?"

Hannibal shrugged. "Maybe he thinks he already knows where we're going."

The lieutenant ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, but he doesn't usually base everything on a single thought. He's not that stupid."

Hannibal shrugged. "Well, there's only one way to find out for sure, Face."

He lit up a cigar and blew out a smoke splodge (despite years of trying, he'd never managed to acquire the art of smoke rings). "Step on it, BA. Next stop: Sacheton." A grin spread across his face. "I love it when a plan comes together!"

* * *

**Next up...the final chapter! (I was going to make this the final chapter, but it would have taken far too long to mesh together, so I split it in two :)) Anyway, hope you enjoyed this one and if you read, please review!**


	9. Case Closed

**Okay, here it is! The final chapter ;-) Thanks for waiting so long and sorry for the delay :-)**

* * *

"Pull over here, BA."

The sergeant obeyed, turning into a parking space in a nice, cozy looking motel called _The Fluffy Mattress_. A sign featuring a painted mattress – presumably the motel's namesake – and a plump pillow with happy smiles hugging each other like long lost friends hung above the flashing _Vacancies_ sign. It was also located about five miles outside Sacheton, as Hannibal didn't think that it would be a good idea to try and find a place to stay in the town itself.

"Alright." The colonel turned in his seat to look at Face and Murdock. "Well, we've got plenty of food, so we'll stop here for the night. Face, you and I can stay in one room; BA and Murdock the other. I don't think Decker will be looking for us around here, but there's no point in taking chances so I'll take first watch."

"Hannibal, I ain't sharin' no room with this crazy fool! Last time I was in with him, he spent the whole night playing with the electric light!"

It was, BA remembered thinking much later, a stupid time to say it. Usually Hannibal would put up with his sniping at Murdock, just like he put up with Murdock's craziness and Face's frequent complaints, but like all men, he had his limits.

"Alright then." Hannibal's voice was very calm, but there was something about it that didn't encourage arguing. "If you feel so strongly about sharing with the captain, then _you_ can take the first watch, Sergeant. And since Murdock has a habit of playing with the electric light, and since that'll make it difficult to see through the window, you can take that watch right here in the van. I'll relieve you at two thirty and we'll be on the road again by eight."

He hopped out of the van, slamming the door shut on BA's answering growl, and went to check them in, Face and Murdock right behind him.

The room they were shown to was basic, with not much in it besides a TV, two single beds and a small refrigerator, but it would do just fine and, unlike certain other motel rooms Hannibal had stayed in, was at least spotlessly clean.

Face poked his head into the bathroom (equally clean, complete with small bottles of shampoo and conditioner) came out again and sat down on one of the beds.

Hannibal wasn't sure of the best way to proceed with Face, but had spent most of the trip turning over various options in his mind before finally deciding to act as though nothing had happened. It had worked before, back in the POW camp.

"How's business, Lieutenant?" It had been a common greeting between them in 'Nam, after Face had become their supply officer and managed to get his hands on so many weapons, decent food supplies and other luxuries that they'd started trading with other units.

"Well, you know, Hannibal; up and down."

That had been a common answer too, Hannibal thought wryly as he settled down on the other bed and started pulling his boots off.

"Glad to hear it, kid."

They sat in a companionable silence for a few minutes, then Face cleared his throat.

"Hannibal...about what I said...you know, it was just—"

The colonel raised a hand and said levelly, "Don't even think of telling me you made it up, Lieutenant. Nobody tells those kinds of lies. Not unless they're a lot sicker in the head than you."

Face swallowed. "Right, but—"

"I know you lie, Face, but I've never known you do it just to shock people, and I don't believe you'd start now. As far as I'm concerned, what you told me doesn't change a thing apart from adding a few names to my List Of Asses To Be Kicked. I won't mention it again, not unless you do. How are your wrists?"

Face frowned as he tested them, then shrugged. "They'll do. I guess it'll take a while for them to heal completely."

"Yeah. And there's bound to be a little scarring, although you can probably cover that up. You cut quite far back."

Face shifted his weight. "Well. Anyway."

Recognizing the _back off_ signal, Hannibal reached into his pocket and pulled out the _Missing_ poster, then handed it to the lieutenant.

"What do you make of all this? I know I asked you before, but with one thing and another I never really got an answer."

Face shrugged. "To tell you the truth, I'm not sure. Maybe she ran away and whoever was responsible for her heard she was using another name, so they printed up a few fliers with both names, just in case."

"It's the same girl, though?" Not that he wasn't already convinced of that, but it never hurt to get a second opinion.

"Oh yeah, sure. The pose seems a little different, but that's the same girl." Face passed the flier back to Hannibal. "What're you going to do?"

The colonel shrugged, a nonchalant look on his face. "I've been doing some thinking—"

"Oh boy. Hannibal, this isn't the kind of thinking that results in us doing a classic pincer movement before all of us charging through the front door, is it?"

Hannibal sighed. "Face, sometimes I think those strategy lessons were wasted on you. You can't divide your troops and send them in to attack from both sides _and_ send them all in through the front door as well. Besides, this calls for subtlety. Last time we explored his house, I noticed the window catch in one of the rooms downstairs was loose. I think someone could jar it open without too much difficulty."

"By _someone_, you mean _me_, don't you?"

To Face's surprise, Hannibal shook his head. "No, I should be able to handle it." Off his lieutenant's expression, he added, "Do you really think you're the only person ever to sneak out of bed after curfew?"

"So while you're heroically breaking into Markham's house, what are the rest of us going to be doing?"

Hannibal grinned. "Well, BA's going to be sitting in the van ready for a quick getaway, Murdock's going to be covering BA and you're going to be distracting the guards."

Face folded his arms and glared at Hannibal. "Why me?"

"Because you're the best climber out of all of us, and because those goons have already caught you trying to break in a few times. The minute they see you, they'll think you're trying again and be on you like flies on molasses. We'll all be in radio contact, so if anything goes wrong, you can call for backup. Just don't let them get a hold of you."

"And what about the dogs?"

Hannibal's grin broadened and he pulled out a cigar, lighting it and blowing out smoke before answering, "Them too."

"Hannibal, even if the guards don't think to look for you, the dogs will smell you before you're two feet in!"

"Face." Hannibal put a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder. "Face, Face, _Face_. You don't give me anywhere _near_ enough credit. While you're distracting the guards and the dogs by leading them around the front, I'll be sneaking in over the wall at the back, breaking in the window – which is also at the back – and getting inside. It's perfect. Completely foolproof!"

Face raised his eyebrows but didn't say what was going through his head: namely that every time Hannibal came up with a perfect, foolproof plan, the bad guys retaliated by coming up with an even more perfect fool.

"How are you planning on getting inside the grounds? There's broken glass along the wall, or had you forgotten that?"

Hannibal shrugged. "Well...I'll think of something."

* * *

'Something' turned out to be a length of chain from one of the secret compartments BA had installed in the van. Even Hannibal wasn't sure how many hidey-holes there were, much less what his sergeant had stashed in each of them.

He knew about the chain, though. BA often used it to lift heavy objects by rigging up some kind of pulley, or something similar (not being mechanically inclined by nature, Hannibal tended to be a little vague about the finer details of BA's work). A little work had turned it into a grappling hook that should do the job nicely.

At least, now that Hannibal was stood there staring at the wall and waiting, ears straining to hear what was happening, he hoped that it would. He could have used a regular hook, but if Face was right and Markham really did have broken glass along the top of his wall, then there was a good chance the rope might get damaged. A chain was better, even if it was harder to throw.

On the other side of the grounds, he heard a dog start to bark, followed by someone shouting. He couldn't quite make out the words, but that was probably a good thing.

Time to get going. He swung the chain around several times, getting a feel for the weight of it, then let fly.

To his surprise, it caught first time. Hannibal began to clamber up it as quietly as he could (the damn chain insisted on clinking) and then hauled himself over the top of the wall.

Face hadn't been kidding. Markham, or at least someone who worked for him, had set wicked-looking shards of glass in the top of the wall, and Hannibal winced. This was going to take some careful work.

Abandoning the chain and placing his hands in and around the shards as best he could, he pushed himself up, swung his body over and dangled on the other side. He could feel something pressing against the palm of his hand and shifted it away reflexively. There was no way he could rearrange the grapple to let him rappel down this side from this position, which had been his original plan.

_Hell with it_, he thought, and dropped.

It was a soft landing, or as soft a landing as a five foot pyracanthus bush can reasonably be expected to give. In this case, Hannibal was lucky; he'd tried to roll as soon as he felt himself land and that action plus his own momentum managed to tear him loose of the worst of the bush's thorns.

He could hear Face's voice raised in argument with the guards and hoped his lieutenant could keep them distracted a little longer. Limping slightly, and mentally cursing all gardeners and rich people who planted pyracantha in the path of innocent people who were only trying to break in, the colonel made his way over to the window he'd noted before.

The catch was, to Hannibal's relief, still loose, and a well-placed blow jarred it loose, allowing the colonel to crawl inside. He'd got as far as closing the window and turning around to begin his search when the light clicked on and he winced, covering his eyes.

"I see you figured it out, then," Markham said from the doorway. He was holding a glass of wine in one hand and a folded newspaper in the other and looked as calm and composed as if Hannibal had walked into his house as an invited guest, rather than scrambling in through the window. "I had a feeling you might. If you'd turned up a month or so ago, you might have had better luck. Out of interest, what kind of cover story did you have prepared for any of my men who found you snooping around here?"

Hannibal shrugged. "Double glazing salesman."

"I see. Well, I have had one or two turn up late at night – although never _this _late – but generally speaking, they tend to come in through the doors."

Hannibal started for his gun, then hesitated. Threatening goons was one thing. Threatening someone who was just standing there and hadn't tried to attack you, hadn't even made personal remarks, was another.

"You knew we were coming back."

"I found it impossible to believe that the A-Team would just give up. I've heard you and your men referred to as several things – none of which I would venture to repeat here, since I despise profanity – but _quitter_ isn't one of them. I knew calling Colonel Decker would only deter you for a while, although I expected you to return sooner."

"My lieutenant was injured."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Colonel Smith." And as before when he'd been dealing with this man, Hannibal got the odd feeling that Markham meant it, that he wasn't just saying it to be polite. "I hope he has recovered."

"He will." _I hope_.

Markham accepted that with a nod. "So, since I also heard that the A-Team never leaves a job unfinished, I imagine you came here for Chrissy...or Jolene, as I suppose we should call her."

"Who you just _happen_ to have hidden away somewhere," Hannibal supplied.

"No. At least, not anymore. I found her wandering the grounds when I was going out for a late night swim." Markham nodded towards the pool, the edge of which was just visible through the window. "She seemed in a state, so I took her in and calmed her down. She told me she had to make a phone call and that she'd tried to sneak into my house because it was so big she thought she could call from one room without disturbing anyone around. I knew who she was, of course; we don't get many new residents in Sacheton and Rita and Chrissy had been the talk of the town. But then she told me that Rita wasn't really her mother, that her name was Jolene Hanson and she'd been kidnapped by Rita from her home in Colorado. A tiny little place called White Shoals, according to her."

"Did you believe her?"

Markham shrugged. "I didn't know whether to believe her or not, to be honest. But just in case she _was_ telling the truth, I thought it best for her to remain here; if Rita had kidnapped her and knew she'd been busted, I didn't think we'd see either of them for dust. If she was lying, I thought it was best I keep her here with me instead of letting a girl like that wander around loose. I sent one of my men to White Shoals to make inquiries and he confirmed Jolene's story."

Hannibal snorted. "So you just took her in out of the kindness of your heart? Didn't expect anything in return, no reward, no acts of gratitude?"

Markham raised his eyebrows and sipped at his drink before answering. "Colonel, you really must get rid of some of these preconceptions. Just because I live in a huge mansion, own about three quarters of the town and have most of the local police in my pocket, this does not automatically mean that I am a corrupt, vicious, megalomaniac bent on running the local mom and pop store out of business. As a matter of fact, I have rather a soft spot for the family stores. Much more friendly service compared to the huge chains, don't you agree?"

Hannibal did agree, but he wasn't about to give Markham the satisfaction of knowing it. Instead he said, "So if you're such a nice guy, why did you lie about her?"

Markham closed his eyes with a distasteful expression, as if Hannibal had just farted in his face. "_Please_, Colonel Smith. I never lie except to the media, and even you must admit that hardly counts. I said there was no one called Chrissy Allen in my house. I didn't say anything about Jolene Hanson and you never thought to ask."

Hannibal stared at him for a few minutes, then said, "What about Rita?"

Markham clicked his tongue. "Yes, poor Rita. Such a pity. Her own daughter went missing several years ago. Police never found her or found out what happened to her. I understand it sent her over the edge." Holding out the paper, he added, "I had one of my people track down a copy of this one. Usually I don't bother keeping tabs on what I achieve – apart from the obvious figures for tax returns, of course – but this one was different. I'm quite proud of it."

Hannibal took the paper from him and read the story in silence. It was easy enough to find the one Markham meant; Jolene's return was splashed all over the front page, under the headline KIDNAP VICTIM REUNITED WITH FAMILY and a picture of the same girl Hannibal had seen in those fliers. There were a couple of differences; this girl was beaming and hugging her parents instead of smiling prettily for a family photo, but it was unmistakably Jolene. From the looks of it, White Shoals, Colorado didn't get much in the way of news, and the girl's sudden return had been a shot in the arm for the little gazette.

The colonel stared at the paper for several minutes, then back at Markham. It could be a fake, of course – and he'd have Face check it out at the very next public library they came to – but that would have meant a lot of time and effort to convince him that a missing girl was out of his reach. If Markham really had been the one to kidnap her, as the Team had originally supposed, then it would have been far easier and quicker for him to just deny all knowledge.

"You win."

Markham raised his eyebrows. "I wasn't aware we were in any kind of competition, Colonel Smith. You want to get this girl back home, and so do I. You just started off at the wrong home, that's all." Sipping his wine, he added, "Now, don't you think it's about time you went and rescued your lieutenant from that tree?"

* * *

"Say it!"

"No!"

"Say it!"

"_No_!"

"Hannibal, tell the big guy he's gotta say it!"

Hannibal didn't look round as he said, "BA, Murdock says you've gotta say it, whatever _it_ is."

"I ain't sayin' nothin', Hannibal! Specially nothin' like what this fool wants me to say!"

Face, who had been alternating between examining the scrapes he'd gotten last night and trying unsuccessfully to doze off, opened his eyes to look at BA. "What does he want you to say?"

"He wants me to say that I believe some kinda crazy alien ancestors of the human race led us to Sacheton just so's we could help that girl—"

"HA!" Murdock grinned at BA. "Knew you agreed with me!"

"Shut up, fool! I don't agree with nothin' you got to say!"

"Oh yeah? Oh _yeah_? Well, you jus' listen ta _this_!" Murdock pulled out a tape recorder from his pocket, clicked off the Record button, rewound it and pressed Play. BA's voice tumbled out of the speakers.

"—_I believe some kinda crazy alien ancestors of the human race led us to Sacheton just so's we could help that girl—_"

"That don't count, crazy man!"

Murdock hastily moved seats, plunging the tape recorder back into his jacket pocket. "Sure it does, BA. You said it, an' _I_ taped it."

"Give me that, fool!"

Both Hannibal and Face grabbed for the armrests as the van swerved, then the two of them exchanged glances and good-natured eye rolls. It looked like being another good day, or at least, a typical one.

"Hey BA. Put the radio on, would ya?"

* * *

**Well, it's done. Next up...well, the Team's headed for a shipwreck scenario, a supernatural scenario or a completely out-of-this-world scenario. Still working on that; haven't quite decided which story to put up next ;-)**

**Anyway, thanks for being so patient with the updates (and gaps between them), hope you enjoyed it and if you read, please review!**


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